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What madness is kindled in the flames of a brush?
The paint pours forth what the mouth cannot.
Allowing the eyes to see the soul's inner world of lust,
A place where many stone hearts long ago forgot.
For all can paint a tree is it stands plainly before them.
But I can tell you, there lies no honor in one
That copies the world for the joy of creation is not with him.
His heavy heart and hands will tire before his task is done.
But who can dream in colors not yet to be seem?
Who can dance to music that hasn't kissed the ears?
"Why," the public cry, "This kind of talk is obscene.
We can only paint what has always been here."
So who can interpret the world, so messy and unclean?
It's like the splatters of paint on my hands that dry
And tell colorful stories on my fingers and the cracks between
That, if we don't pay attention to, will soon pass us by.
So I will not create rules about the world or how to paint
I care not for shadows and textures and realistic shapes.
The world is more than trees or dogs or angelic saints
Or marble bodies that stand in marble drapes.
A circle of turquoise, a million spirals of green-
My canary yellow canvas longs for that.
Some blind hearts want what they have already seen,
But I've found the best way to live and I call it abstract.