The Well Of The Artist

I paint in black and whiteA face appears as my creation on canvasStructured lines expressing the very foundations of chaosThese lines are but wordsWords I read from upon each wall, each scene I beholdI swallow the pictures of the surroundingsand set them in the womb of my mindThe plant grows in my garden obscureFrom the poisoned ground a flower then risesBlack and dead it still grows further more and moreAnd I adore it's beauty, grace, it's lonely prideAs I summon it's essence to manifest for me,powers of creations are running through meIn trance it's nature comes undressed to meI then gently dress it in colours, and give it name by words,give it soul by tunes...Soul by tunes!For even the flower that springs from upon the graveholds a mirror of life itselfYes, even youth and thirsting striving for what's aboveBut to the grave it's bound foreverMy soul must bleed to createAs Osiris - I die to be resurrectedThe pain is the wordsThe tears the real fluid on my brushI am the crying dying oneI am the magicianFor I am the artistAnd as the world devours meI am resurrected in another oneCreated from the devastation of myselfDevastation of myself!I hear the voices haunt across the spacesThey grant me the speech of my world - our worldAnd though they cut me deep, very deepI search them for more as soon as they're goneThey hurt so badly, still its of them I consistThere is no real joy in this, purely a need for deed[REPEAT VERSE 5][REPEAT VERSE 2]I travel by the tears, falling downInto a perfect satisfaction in the soil of the graveyard