Iapetus Eviscerate Divine
A painter in constant creation;
His palette blood, his brush violence
With each pass of brush on canvas
A wound to his prophetic hand
Instruments of progress are the tools demise;
The pinnacle of expression is death
And his heart beats to passing brush;
A gentle touch to its rugged flesh
As minutes lengthen into years
He sees how his life has passed him;
Filled with longing, bathed in tears
Circumspect bloodshed;
Profligate existence
His work concludes, crafted in troth
Being brutal and elegant both
Order made from chaos and chaos from serenity
The masterpiece is divine, destructive, but different than expected;
It cannot coexist with its maker;
And at the final stroke, art annihilates the artist
As minutes lengthen into years
He sees how his life has passed him;
Filled with longing, bathed in tears
A dreamer
A thinker
All for naught
Sustenance and meaning
Is all that he sought
He will not be released
From the nightmare he's conceived
There is no redemption for his soul
When destiny meets demise
Twas not his nightmare in his art;
His art reflected who we are
