When my signs became symptoms,
And my art became a curse,
All that was around me,
Got worse, and worst, til worst!
No longer could my heart and soul,
Be represented on a page,
Be seen by even me, alone,
Nor satiate the god’s rage.
All my pain into a needle,
Long and sharp and thick,
I thought it was for art, alone,
But how the memory sticks.
A page, alone,
With clover field grows,
Behind my imagination,
And knowing gnosis,
Full and through,
Became abomination.
Why can I not summon a blessing,
To those, ripped to shreds asunder,
Why cant the joys of colour I’ve painted,
Become some bandit’s plunder?
Behold, even then,
The beauty was,
Always, boredom to them,
Indifference, a body thin,
Nothing to remember.
Till malevolence reached,
Where I once was,
Sophia came to tell me,
“Water of life,
Your job, to be,
To hold, instead,
Eternally.”
RWE (4/9/26)
