What dread will surprise me,
O you dark den?
To stroke lines and curves
with empty pen;
To bestow ranting words,
want to be free;
To take stiff like a grey wool
into the place of fury.
What pigment will stain me
O apple of one’s eye?
To paint picture of beauty,
to color with dye;
To draw a shape of madness
and texture of kind;
To indulge the will of hands
and pacify my mind.
What mist will annoy me,
O innate noesis?
How that hokey kind of life
spread its genesis;
To breathe a worker of steel
and a giver of bliss;
To exclaim eureka!!!
with thrills and worries.
What noise will deafen me,
Sound of silence?
To hum the tune of love
and the seethe of hate;
To soften the buzz of world,
playing their game;
As sweet wind blows by,
drifting away their name.
What mud will mess me up,
O you dirt of art?
To mold the shape of soul,
ready to stand;
To raise the image of brave,
man to admire;
And to bring the dead hero
back again to life…
© S. R. Camus, 2015. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided the full and clear credit is given to Samuel R. Camus with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
S. R. Camus
S. R. Camus 