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Iapetus
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Eviscerate Divine
A painter in constant creation;
His palette blood, his brush violence.
With each pass of brush on canvas
A wound to his prophetic hand.
Instruments of progress are the tools demise;
The pinnacle of expression is death.
And his heart beats to passing brush;
A gentle touch to its rugged flesh.
As minutes lengthen into years,
He sees how his life has passed him;
Filled with longing, bathed in tears.
Circumspect bloodshed;
Profligate existence.
His work concludes, crafted in troth,
Being brutal and elegant both.
Order made from chaos and chaos from serenity.
The masterpiece is divine, destructive, but different than expected;
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It cannot coexist with its maker;
And at the final stroke, art annihilates the artist.
As minutes lengthen into years,
He sees how his life has passed him;
Filled with longing, bathed in tears.
A dreamer,
A thinker,
All for naught.
Sustenance and meaning
Is all that he sought.
He will not be released
From the nightmare he's conceived.
There is no redemption for his soul
When destiny meets demise.
Twas not his nightmare in his art;
His art reflected who we are.
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