awaken as from a tormented sleep with eyes anxiously looking to creep beyond this twisted dementia displayed on the walls mysterious mindsets and ink droplets fall muses take flight in an all out war shall i catch with open hand or let it fall and start again such words burn the skin so enter stage right might in hand before the micro cosm stand display my efforts after all don t expect them recognized hourly torture chaos ignite beauty and art give a sign of life but as balzac and hardy profess the martyr will burn for her canvas elusive horizon i m not a threat you see i m for some reason always on trial object of detestation always on trail o solitude with thee i dwell with thee i dwell in our assiduous gated hell trivial this mind and spirit world you can t compare their worth to what is real at its best all the critics must confess this work can outlive death so what is real because i can t describe half the shit i feel inside your crimes targeted intent eviscerating innocence i swear i m not a threat put down your defense i swear i m not at all all i can do is watch in awe feet raking the sand hands bound by molten ire as the broad guillotine blade sinks into the horizon streams of burning gold burst forth from ultramarine expansive veins and reach towards me lending heat to the air as the earth is sliced in half and the dividing line approaches for every stage turned wonderland for every sound turned song for every song turned experience for every hour drawn long accables de misre en dcembre les muses se baignent en flammes noyes dans l ombre elles disparaissent attendant le divin peintre de l univers le soleil