A reddish gaze to welcome the bed,
the colors again dance over
a melancholic pallet,
before the empty canvas a creator
would sleep his dread and
paint the world... black.
In the glass box he would endure
the vision, of glorious moon laughing
... to wish an unspoiled tomb
for a virgin-like massacre.
Pure, uncut and distant
the colors hidden beneath the pages;
a god was created
and sadness to be awaken.
But nevertheless he painted,
without a canvas, paint or inspiration,
a grey madman, this child
of ages - to fall decadent
in a rectangle damnation.















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