UNTO OUR FALLEN MUSE:

Whose Sultry Ravishment Is But Twisted Inspiration:

Unhappily, I find myself searching for inspiration within this drab, unpainted canvass, which supplies no substance or worth unto my weary mind. It would be well if this burden were somehow lifted from me, that I might continue beyond the needs of these artistic bonds, which only serve to shackle me unto this vile, black rock of dim expressions. I am no more than a lowly prisoner unto the overwhelming influence of my fallen muse, whose punishment I must suffer, day by day, until my many labours are deemed complete at last.

Her cravings are insatiable, matched only my ambition to perform; however, I cannot now find the inspiration she would so lovingly bestow, for she is turned from me, into a wild and reckless shadow of her former self. I am clasped within her gaze, unwilling or unable to break its deadly hold upon me, while she whispers cruelty and malice into my waiting heart, expecting: glorious and stunning paintings; vast and meaningful poems; and whole volumes of exquisite pottery to be fashioned in return. For hers is an endless, thankless task, at which I cannot alone succeed.

Still clinging to some false hope of redemption and escape, yet contained within the shattered bastions of memory, I continue ever onwards. Yet, unwilling to forgive myself, I cannot dissolve this vow of service unto a dark, uncaring mistress, who seems only content to bend my will, twist my mind, and break my very soul, with her bleak and scathing burden, which I myself was at once a fool to suppose that I could bear.

THE REGRETFUL BEATS OF OUR OWN WEAKLING HEARTS OF DARKNESS:

Cannot Console These Countless Ones

Maimed, Raped, Starved, Suffering and Dead:

The world is dark, beneath this abysmal weight of death and cruelty, which blots the light of hope and truth from view. The hate is strong within our souls, which barter towards the new attainment of some undeserved glory. We strive with weapons of wood, stone, iron, steel or atom to deny our many neighbours that which they themselves both desire and deserve.

The nation is shattered, drawn to genocide, warfare and rebellion, built for a mighty and unending slaughter, which can neither be avoided nor undone; while the defunct and defective shambles of this unhappy state turn voraciously inwards, with an insatiable cancerous hunger, to inexplicably consume itself, through a monumental glut of hate and blood and tears.

The child is starved, dangling from a thread of poverty and want, reduced to a shriveled skeletal deformation, fed upon, from within, by the burning tentacles of sickness, ignorance and parasites, where once a hopeful future dared to rear its gentle head. Nothing now remains of that which this new life once had promised, as all has come to darkness; while we continue to ignore, blissfully unaffected, those innocents, who are there forever turned to dust,

by our own neglect, inaction and abuse.

WHAT NEW REALMS OF SHAME AWAIT:

Within This Wretched Sense Of Guilt:

Can you see the bitter tears of pain and anguish,

Which bind you to this one, unforgiving end?

Can you hear the awful, triumphant silences,

Which overtake these weary, troubled lands?

Can you smell the tragic agony of those gentle innocents,

Who are left, helpless and undone?

Can you taste the fires of regret,

Which burn so vibrantly,

Within your vacant self?

Can you feel the uncanny weight of madness,

Which rends you, wholly,

Of life from limb?