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…
***
Its really beautiful photo.
Thank you Melanie…