Incandescent thoughts implode in other
Rooms, where the lights have all long since burnt out.
Inspiration is constantly smothered
In carpet laced with broken glass and doubt.
The red light should have given her away:
My darling, dread mistress all too merry.
I knew her face when I entered the fray
But leave I now with sorrows to carry.
And yet perhaps men’s minds are meant to break
In the hands of those with hammers and fate.
Life is, after all, just what you can make.
The light only ever comes on too late.
Glass walls are seen as far too confining,
So long as for you, mistress, I’m pining.
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Comments
--
-rememberence is only an illusion for the life you think you're living
I had not expected the response to my work to be so positive (or, for that matter, so swift).
--
Meticulous in every moment, yet
often overlooking the true
realities of everyday life.
Indeed, some identifiable instances
arouse the apathetic artist, but
rarely will reality extend a hand.
The artist trembles before what must
yet be created.
--
-rememberence is only an illusion for the life you think you're living
I'm glad I caught your eye.
--
Meticulous in every moment, yet
often overlooking the true
realities of everyday life.
Indeed, some identifiable instances
arouse the apathetic artist, but
rarely will reality extend a hand.
The artist trembles before what must
yet be created.
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