Mysterious mindsets and ink-droplets fall.
Muses take flight in an all out war.
Shall I catch it with open hand?
Or let it fall and start again?
Such words burn the skin.
Before the micro-cosm, stand.
Display my efforts, after all, don't expect them recognized.
Hourly torture, chaos ignite!
Beauty and art give a sign of life.
But, as Balzac and Hardy profess, the martyr will burn for her canvas.
You see, I'm for some reason always on trial.
Object of destination - always on trial.
With thee I dwell!
With thee I dwell is our assiduous, gated hell.
You can't compare their worth to what is real.
At its best, all critics must confess, this work can outlive death - so what is real?
Because I can't describe half the shit I feel inside your crimes.
Targeted intent eviscerating innocence.
Put down your defense.
As the broad guillotine blade sinks into the horizon, streams of burning gold burst forth from ultramarine expansive veins and reach towards me, lending heat to the air, as the Earth is sliced in half and the dividing line approaches.
Noyées dans l'ombre elles disparaissent, attendant le divin pientre de l'Univers, le Soliel.