Everyone wants to read a dream
That has not been conjured
In a base of ink that spirals
And lifts, suspending awe over cliffs,
On pages that are numbered
And controlled by no specific riffs.
No love to anchor
Or hate to inspire
Nor greed to overwhelm
The destiny of dead men.
That left loyalty to bring its new disaster.
Then I over think
The biggest part of the littlest things
Like where the beat drops
Or how hard the verse rings
And then I blew the chorus
Where heavy notes was never sung,
Flying paper ~ caught in wind ~
Around the rim ~ to join the dust.
As if the end of greatness
Couldn't come any faster.
I master the art of impressionism
In strokes I could never
Apply to my prison.
Stillness would move
And the Minimalist would review
But I'd still rely on you
To interpret my own Concept.
~ Because,
"The beauty is not for me to behold,
I think that's the curse of a writer."
And of Artists' in entirety;
To be the conduit of voiceless energies
and see the world in its
transparent form.
To be at the other end of the brush
And the pen
and the chords.
For if the Đeity of İnventiveness
'llowed us to remember every vision
And snippets of inspiration
On the horizon of our golden fleece
How would you be able to tell
that this was a masterpiece?