Within each being a canvas framed,
There let form the colours life to paint,
Ere erase the strokes of simple brush fade,
Alas could not face the patterns it forms,
Alas could refuse to cut through paper the art,
The art indeed is fickle mine heart inclined,
And whilst silence broke and so my word is lost,
Within me there remain black and white colours,
My grey is but kindred felt and earnest fought;
Then I shall wage war against the demons inside,
To history I beset myself in bleeding hope to fall,
So till heart annoy a destiny awaits my feat destroy,
With rising memory thus ye capture lest more forget,
In each second there capture the glorious moment,
Hence to past shall little mane to life be felt,
When God punished Man with Silence his word ne said
And so Man ventures lone with no God to punish
Then fights himself for purpose lost is purpose gained,
Ere the drop of blood be fall the eclipse be known,
In every fall the world of my sight is hither blind,
Let life punch me from the right, slap me from the left,
Let the planets fall and the stars weep as they dimmer,
With each hour that passes mine heart shrinks to ash,
And from the ashes may tears grow tulips downwards,
As they descend downwards let their petals fall to dark,
Where once they fall shall land in empty canvas to see,
And of the canvas the Picasso we call life shall be life,
Then I am a Saint to mine own misfortunes and misdeeds,
For I am a symptom of Fate and Chance – ill kept, ill seen,
Then I am pawn to Fate and servant to Chance, my life unspent.

Life, Mysterious, Poetry, Works
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