The Diary of a dead artist

The Diary of a dead artist,

moulded of a cunning fist.

Lying on a sacred high,

Recite, the folly creation die!

Solace in woods alone,

crafts of distant clouds,

of sunsets, of dawns, this tale,

Residue or broken designs…

Humbly I hold thee,

a psalm, any a rejoice,

Inevitable, as the forsaken fruit,

Eyeing the waters, it delivered…

A woman, robed of dark,

The golden glare of thirst,

a dream in making,

Unnerving him, a conceit!

Decipher, the legends not,

For sagas are dear,

the artist of name,

in his dairy, his fame!

Women, every now and then,

Like shores in a stormy sea,

to where I ship?

Anchor here, and stay…

Slipping off a mind, immense,

some here, too real,

Spoken too little of,

Illusions of the past…

The diary, burns still,

The artist, no longer a shadow,

Lying on a sacred high,

Recite, the folly creation die…

***

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