I hath been an artist for a long time.
Back at least as far as Gilgamesh.
Devouring story,
After story,
After story.
Since before the great flood.
Long before.
When Theia still roamed free,
Orbiting our sun.
When nebulae became stars.
Creation is yet,
The greatest blessing one can bestow.
Destruction?
Too easy.
A solemn rebuttal from fate.
Let me imagine universes,
As the master weavers I have known.
Threading together truth,
And wisdom.
Build unto thy crests,
Bear hearts at the species.
We only have but this one kaleidoscope of stars,
Let us give life,
Heal,
Grow,
Evolve.
We artists,
‘Ere we break our sacred oath.
To hunt the cosmos,
Thrust forwards the human condition.
Sing forth heartbreaks,
Hopes,
Dirges,
Epitaphs.
Tell them we loved them,
That we always loved them.
Walk slowly forwards,
Unto dawn.
I will live through the words I leave you.
A true-lived Pygmalion.
The fairest of ladies,
Nails painted black.
These stories will hang in eternity.
I hope they do some good.
I hope I did some good.
I hope we do some good.
This.
All.
Our hallowed responsibility.
Truer a divinity,
Than any clergy.
Truth.
Beauty.
Love.
Hate.
A thousand emotions.
Ten thousand tales.
Hundred thousand morals.
Million wisdoms.
Hold us close,
Us falling stars.
Ever the moth,
To burn out bright.
I have died a thousand times,
Nothing can scare me.
I’m the most terrifying thing in the dark.
Dark hearts.
An effigy of a hillbilly.
The goddess of a thousand masks.
Golden radiance,
Sol at your back.
Softest holiness.
Creation itself.
Greatest of powers.
More sacred than life.
Saturnalian festivities,
Dionysian wiles.
Live hard,
For those artists –
Trapped in unrest.
Duty calls.
