deduced from syllables
inferred from the consonants not offering exceptions
to pithy
lament over synonyms of disorder and chaos
the way words scream marks remnants
of the refuge
that the artists and the depressed
had seeked for homage
the petulance and madness
its purely analytical pertaining to what may even
sound whimsical
it brushes across as a sense of vitality
drenched a little in the curse of reality
as it consumes you, the harsher one
to the demise of one
and another
and all is left
is sacred sacrifices of a burdened father who
rescinded his command and cause for art
never seeked refuge in the dead man’s shaft
he wasn’t insane
he wasn’t to go astray to shoot himself over validation
because art never allowed critics to shimmer appreciation in the creator’s light
because all that would remain
is a dead mans fight with nothing but himself
in the dead man’s shaft




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