From above I fall and do pass by,
A fading trail dubbed Heaven’s sigh
This whisper does pass into the night
With the hope that it has caught your sight.
I am incapable of the physical.
All my creations are insubstantial:
Whispers seldom heard.
What I create are dreams,
Cannibalizing pieces of me:
My flesh parchment,
My blood ink,
My soul inspiration.
I weave with shaking hands,
Emptying myself upon the page,
Exhaling that precious Breath of Life
Upon the wind.
A void yawns within me
Threatening my being with collapse.
I sacrifice so much substance
Upon the Altar of Art
Hoping that some part of me has value,
That this thing that I am
Has some meaning.
This drive, this lust for purpose
I am addicted to my butchery,
I forget myself in it,
And in surrendering my flesh
Become something more.
I create a world
Far more real,
But my work has become tainted
By the growing shadow within me.
My eyes go dark,
And I compose a storm upon the horizon,
Drawing from the darkness that yawns like a chasm
Within my breast.
It is a tapestry of bruised purple
Whose inherent beauty
Draws me ever further away from the real,
Blinding my eyes with searing tears,
The inferno of my vision drying my tongue,
Choking me, silencing me.
I draw ever inward, alone holding myself together
As I shake and tremble,
Quaking, the fractures marring the surface
As I shift and shudder.
Everything seems to fade,
The real flickering into dream
As my flesh falters and recedes.
So little can hold me now,
The ethereal clouds calling me skyward,
This need for a Sun, a Moon to light my world.
It is the threat of losing my mortal self to the ideal,
To become God,
To leave the world behind
For that distant, cold Heaven.
Will no one reach out to stop me?
Has no one heard my voice?
If I were to go,
Would you mourn me?
To be valued as a memory,
Yet worthless in Life,
That is the irony.
Perhaps I shall pass
Into my works
And become nothing more
Than my own words.
Perhaps in losing myself,
My loss may make me something.