The well of the artist

I paint in black and white

A face appears as my creation on canvas

Structured lines expressing the very foundations of chaos

These lines are but words

Words I read upon each wall, each scene I behold

I swallow the pictures of the surroundings

and set them in the womb of my mind

The plant grows in my garden obscure

From the poisoned ground a flower then rises

Black and dead it still grows further more and more

And I adore it''s beauty, grace, it''s lonely pride

As I summon it''s essence to manifest for me,

powers of creations are running through me

In trance it''s nature comes undressed to me

I then gently dress in colours,

and give it name by words,

give it soul by tunes...

Soul by tunes!

For every flower that springs from upon the grave holds a mirror of life itself

Yes, even youth and thirsting striving for what''s above

But the grave it''s bound forever

My soul must bleed to create

As Osiris - I die to be resurrected

the pain is the words

The tears the real fluid on my brush

I am the crying dying one

I am the magician

For I am the artist

And as the world devours me

I am resurrected in an other one

Created from the devastation of myself

Devastation of myself!

I hear the voices haunt across the spaces

They grant me the speech of my world - our world

And though they cut me deep, very deep

I search them for more as soon as they''re gone

They hurt so badly, still it''s of them I consist

There is no real joy in this, purely a need for deed

My soul must bleed to create

As Osiris - I die to be resurrected

the pain is the words

The tears the real fluid on my brush

I swallow the pictures of the surroundings

and set them in the womb of my mind

The plant grows in my garden obscure

I travel by the tears, falling down

Into a perfect satisfaction in the soil of the graveyard