Sides of life, in sharpened sparks, on distant fire’s edge,
Bordered by, such restless shadows, from an empty ledge,
Taunting him, his painted heart, and swollen lover’s tongue,
That tasted quick, the bitter sweetness, of the foolish young.
He carried grey, in his tattered sack, and on a bended knee,
Broken-backed, the grey surrounds, his desperate dreams that flee,
Beneath the stairs, and tight office chairs, the artist dies in pieces,
Old photographs, and weekend laughs, his lonely soul’s releases.
Winding high, into the sky, as captured by streaked glass,
A glimpse of trees, held by the breeze, and hungry birds that pass,
Rainbows there, to touch with care, if only he’d believe it,
A watching eye, his one last try, to say that he had seen it.
Colors exploding, none withholding, the glory of their light,
Meeting in the middle, the artist’s riddle, its passions reunite,
Yes, perfect geometry, this mystery, we call the artist’s life,
To a message give, and our lives relive, upon this subtle knife.