Twisted Maleficarum turned abomination
desperately seeking a return to one's humanity.
pumping passion like the blood that summoned them.
Bleeding tears, sweating fears
soaked in trepidation.
Summon some feeling
no time for healing
when paint is just pain with
twin pronged brush strokes.
Tattered, trying, tonal
carving truths into wretched parchment
highlighting the moment in blissful agony.
Why replenish the mana, the magic
- when tortured souls ignite
music upon an over-arching canvass?
This world enjoys the pain
makes dreams out of nightmares,
as fade fears seep through the veil.
The unregulated mage
knows boundless creativity,
knows fear, knows emotion,
knows the limitations of being unlimited.
Omnipotence is not as potent
as facts swill in a poison chalice
watered down by hate, praise and platitudes.
Life is a game, a horror story
with no ending
as mirage becomes truth
and truth becomes art.
The tortured artist becomes a cliché
as critics and academics peek from castle roofs,
upon their agony.
History, an age, a timeless watch tower
where whispers, myths and legends
are one with memories.
All else is forgotten
or worse immortalized.
I plunge a dark staff
deep into my heart