The left handed Artist

the happenstance of noises
is interpreted as voices
they are baleful, malevolent, or wise
fraught with contradiction
but uttered with conviction
as senseless as senility’s surmise

within this pool of sadness
and the fear of creeping madness
(a blackened bloom that’s coming to the fore)
the consciousness is running
from the feral beast so cunning
while trying to lock the fifth and final door

and there! it’s done so proudly
and the door’s been slammed so loudly
and the voices and the visions are deterred
now, it’s time for more creations
for poetic innovations
but the inspiration utters not a word

so The Artist sits and wonders
what sort of mindless blunders
he has made, and why his symphonies are gone
now, perhaps it was the madness
and the overwhelming sadness
that once had given rarity of song.

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