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Eviscerate Divine
par
Iapetus
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A painter in constant creation; His palette blood, his brush violence With each pass of brush on canvas A wound to his prophetic hand Instruments of progress are the tools demise; The pinnacle of expression is death And his heart beats to passing brush; A gentle touch to its rugged flesh As minutes lengthen into years He sees how his life has passed him; Filled with longing, bathed in tears Circumspect bloodshed; Profligate existence His work concludes, crafted in troth Being brutal and elegant both Order made from chaos and chaos from serenity The masterpiece is divine, destructive, but different than expected; It cannot coexist with its maker; And at the final stroke, art annihilates the artist As minutes lengthen into years He sees how his life has passed him; Filled with longing, bathed in tears A dreamer A thinker All for naught Sustenance and meaning Is all that he sought He will not be released From the nightmare he's conceived There is no redemption for his soul When destiny meets demise Twas not his nightmare in his art; His art reflected who we are
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