The artists sit quietly
In their white studio apartments
Marlboros in ashtrays
The painter seeks that special hue of blue.
The poet seeks to release his soul
To revel in the center of night
In solitude they all sit,
As the demons spin and twirl,
Through the smokescreen of shadows.
And it’s no wonder,
A woman was raped
And nearly beaten to
Death on the other side
Of the world, or so it
Would seems on the News.
And it’s no wonder,
That the lost lover
Sits alone and listens
To the thunder whip
Through the night sky.
As he warms the barrel
of his gun beside a fire.
That which we despise the most,
Will meet us half way.
All these images locked inside black boxes,
Tossed somewhere, in every man’s mind.
The artists scramble through labyrinths
Unaware that,
That special hue of blue,
The release of the soul,
Are locked inside
And so it’s no wonder,
That a woman raped
and beaten, murdered
a man and
raped his empty frame.
And it’s no wonder
That everything
Seems on the other
Side of the world,
When seen on the News
And it’s no wonder
That which we
Despise the most
We will meet half way
And it’s no wonder
That artists sometimes
Die by the drink
Of images.
