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An Artist's Deceit
To fall into the deepest of slumbers to the mellifluous hymns,
and buckle and quiver to the sound of the wind slapping against the bare soul,
to be bewitched by the constellation of simplicities that crave the curve of the moon,
and to submit to limerence, and neglect being, are what the demoralized artist,
infatuated with the bright luminance of the sun mirroring the seas, admires.
The selfish desire to dance in new colors is used to render them humble.
The vacuous people follow limp, feet trudged against their hearts, submitting to what was humble,
now wicked; for they cry for the despair of loneliness and the isolation to understand the poet’s hymns.
And they shiver along to the lyrics, and covet something new to admire.
The dumb martyrdom feeds the soul.
For aspiration is dead for the artist,
and those who envelope themselves in the comfort of incompletion, tremble under the harsh moon.
And the question of feeling enough rises against the eclipse of the moon.
Morality is no longer deemed important, and immortality is humble.
Emptiness inspires the jaded artist,
who leaves the ink to spread and allude the reader, to exert the impish hymns.
And the sky that mimicked the earth’s wholesome body, freed the soul.
When what drenched the veins, leaves the listener parched…there still was more to admire.
And the afflicted nomad, that tattooed the words, would admire
the serendipity of the illusion, deceitfulness and duplicity of the moon.
The enervation that was endless, starved the soul.
Starvation would paint one humble.
Intentions are catechized, and others echo the iniquitous hymns.
All hoarded bores the artist.
What was left was a hungry artist.
For now there was nothing left to admire.
And the weak hymns,
of the struggling original, weeped under the reflection of the moon,
for it was the poet’s only companion, there was no audience, the silence was humble.
The trembling hands of the disquieted, irritates the secluded soul.
For one that relished its own deprivation, shattered a soul.
And the infatuation with innocent melancholy, would no longer impel the artist.
The emptiness could be considered humble.
They found themselves to admire,
and pity their romanticized agony, and the chuckle aside came from the company of the moon.
Shallowness filled the hymns.
And the art that was humble enough for public awe, numbed the soul.
The blank canvas that awoke the sweet hymns, was no longer belted by the artist.
And all that was left to admire was the naked moon.