In the deep of the night
I write
of long forgotten melodies
and memories
of the music my soul once bore
of forgotten lore
of strengths and weaknessess
of diseases
that corrupt the minds of young
songs unsung
in the deep of the night
I paint
the hearts broken long ago
now filled with sorrow
I paint young Van Gogh
who would never know
plagued by madness 'till the day he died
a brilliant mind
today is all that we can say
what a shame
that he never knew his fame
in the depth of night
I sing
of the art long lost
that cost
the sanity and lives of many
we gladly bury
in the pit of forgotten lore
to be heard nevermore
of the brilliant minds of yore
to be heard nevermore
of the fear and melancholy instilled
that of which we build
On the bottom of the night
I draw
maps to burdened memories
crying melodies
all the words under the sun
stolen by oblivión
roads to lost places
unfamiliar faces
every man's obliterated hope
how they cope
with the dying stars above
the insignificance of
the art they spent their life exploring
desperately ignoring
the rising sun that soon will die
the end nigh
in the dead of night
I die
never again wondering why
I cry
trusting my art is lost in time
the rhyme
made up by greater minds than I
or thy
in the blink of an eye my body decaying
and softly playing
are the final notes, the last words
so burns
my painting, my life's work
for what was I but worthless dust
that must
join the forgotten who came before
nameless forevermore
