THE PAIN OF CREATION
30 by 40 inches
The artist’s spark
Back to the Gallery
Burns the underbrush,
Heralding insanity for those
Vulnerable to the flames.
The Infernal Gates swing open
To reveal a poet’s fading dream,
Granting liberation
From our internal Scream.
Who can question the fall
Of one creator’s sun,
While dragging specious shrouds
Over the atrocities we have done?
One by one we pass the Water Lilies,
Rarely quiescent enough
To notice The Atavistic Vestiges
After the Rain evaporates.
Though creators blend their pigments,
Their strings vibrate the same,
Forming silhouettes…
…Singing their refrains
