darkminstrel

you take, from me my sacred trust in things human. in my eyes resides the memories of my forebears. i am no petty plaything to experiment on. with your tricks and traps and things shiny. oh, they may get you into my bed but they do not help you to carve your way into my heart. you seek my love like it were a thing for a doctor to name and to treasure and to hide on dusty shelves, ensconced in its glass jar- slightly smudged- full of yellow vitriol. my heart is no more real than your courtesy. foolish thing, strange, not what you are in the flesh, more what you are in ideal. your rheumy eyes lock me in a stare of hurt and hunger.

paint the stars, open my mind to the heavens and paint the stars, with my thoughts, with my essence, the whip-crack reverberation of my art hangs in the misty air, colours of sunrise, the mist clears, my tired hands fall, down, to rest upon the ground, the clear ring of empty brass echoes dimly, through the ruddy mist, through the haze of my thoughts that have been thrown against the wall for all to see, as I paint the stars, with my brains...