What peril in this grievous testament
Fate, in its mischievous irony, cruelly toppled thine health
Why "creator", why deprive me of the most joyous of senses?
I, godlike among men, in both art & thought
Sensitivity drains upon this misunderstanding
Mine and theirs to view, Nature is truly to look upon the inevitable
All might be well tomorrow, that is the great wish
That it has or ever will be granted, blind illusion
Albeit, aloneness is the prize of genius
Passions attained cause songs to become silent
And so, I am heir to bereavement, and threnody my mistress alas
It must be, yet the muse embraces me
Her warm heart to stoke this inner flame
And drown out the mortals and petty theology
With heroic composition
I'll not suffer the scars of kindred feelings
Allowing this lowly world to aggravate me momentarily
Only to escape to my melodic bliss, creativity thrives in bitterness
My veil is untouchable, talent unattainable
"I Am That Which Is"
Loveloss & scorn left to bleed through hammered counterpoint
Indulge my vast ambition, defy horrific fates
Banished from a poisoned life to shadows
A looming backdrop to the paintings of our lives
No tears shall fall from hushed eyes
Glints of slender lovelorn cries
Gather the drops that they may cease to sink
And deny the Earth of that addictive drink
With years adoration will simply grow
I'll reach their worship from funereal woe
Never attained an equal release to my melancholic masterpiece