Cold
Turkey
The call
to suicide’s the artist’s brief
The
punishing silence in life’s the grief
There are
those, few, who feel the universe’s resonance
There’s
one payment derived and that’s fate’s penance
To
experience the extreme is to know all
Anger it
raises is derided by life’s call
No mercy
but only justice makes it moral
That
self-pity weakness becomes hated and I stand tall
But
nothing’s resolved, so what’s the point?
Expression,
so that it heals emotional dislocation and fracture
The
artist is the sacrificial lamb, upon the altar of aesthetics
In word,
picture, dance or song, a message is carried
This
fight for humanity’s fate determined by mind
It’s lost
by sloth and ease, won by objective determination with effort
The curse
of intellectual that views the incurious
Disgust
of the intellectual that witnesses the epicureans
No comments:
Post a Comment