I am that which cannot be described.
Passion flows from heart to mind,
On wretched river it does wind.
Give me strength to continue my ride.
I do wage war on the banality of life,
My hands are bloodied, eyes pure no more,
Bellowing at fate, I am the Whore.
I draw my sword to insurmountable strife.
I watch, repulsed by the passers by.
Streaming through gothic scenes,
Drones of complacence, I will not redeem.
Hear the ghosts of righteousness as they sigh.
I hate them; they are pillars of apathy.
They stand, blurring my landscapes, blocking the sun,
I will, gasping my last breath, prove that I am the one.
By the pen or picture they will see.
I will sacrifice, cloaked in principle.
The Angels hold my dreams,
I am lost, abandoned or so it seems.
Amidst a lake of aspirations, my hope but a ripple.
I own the secrets I have kept.
Imprisoned are they in my soul,
Holding desperately my convictions as the thunder rolls.
For too long I have not slept.
I love the simplicity of the rose.
Understand me, she absolutely does,
What is now, cannot ever be, what was.
Birth of the new is now my repose.
Mundanity and mediocrity I will not abide.
To claw to the middle is not my intent,
Inspiration, I feel, must be heaven sent.
I was, I am and forever will be…Pride.