Sunday, November 22, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
When work is too long in the studio of art:
No matter how much the amount of it's grace;
It begins to cry out in the realms of the artist's six senses.
Moaning like laboring pains of woman,
Spearing his heart with tears like the sound of hurting dogs.
Whaling in the echoes of his mind,
Like starving whine of cat.
Bitter, like demons existing only in flight.
Even when they are given no light and put away,
They hide, seeking him out in traps.
From the even of the shadow they say,
"We are too many; destroy us, and you with it."
A poem by:
Links to my artwork
- ► 2011 (17)
- ► 2010 (39)
- ▼ November (4)
- ► 2008 (25)