By Alan Lisanti
The artist's blood is blue like 30,000 leagues of the deepest frigidity
The artist's blood seethes like the core of the Sun
The artist's blood depletes itself in the name of creativity
The artist's blood is bleak like aurora skies cleaned to blank canvases
The muse never sleeps despite the throes of exhaustion plummeting
The soul of a mere mortal melted in the palms of the world's hands
The life of these tragic cycles eviscerate flesh to purge hope from atrophy
The world is so vacant and bare without us there
The silence that invades when the song stops momentarily propels the demons to stir and manifest in thin air
The blank pages unmarked are just dead trees and drink coasters on glass coffee tables, they hold empty cups of unanswered but containable despair
The ends of shelves prop up crooked spines from falling victim to gravity
But no words leap from pages just white voids undeclared
And time fades these purposeless collections of infamy
To yellow off-white hues of forgotten lifetimes in disrepair
The artist's blood is infinite but not in the face of mortality
There is a gutter in Boston with your name waiting for mythology
To proceed your departure and propel your legacy
In the hearts and the minds of those that still breathe the fresh air
There are pockets with change needles and threads in them
That weave the influence beyond discoveries of stiff limbs, poor lungs
Dead hearts and speculations of
Genius that once graced the world with existence and briefly gave gifts to paint the stars that dulled out in the canopy
To relight the burnt candles in the eyes of tomorrow's forever then
As words outlive their makers
The spirit is spared
In the songs that the records spin and spit into consciousness received by the new
In the shadow of heirs
And colours in a world gone deprived as in Pleasantville with fires alive that funnel the spectacle announcing intrigue to hearts winded by searches for
Something, anything, to fill the holes in humanity the glue in experience
The spirals of longevity
The kaleidoscopic brilliance that kills voids and sadness in the pupils of the living that dive deep into isolations or purposes that hide from themselves but
Find it all there
I thank them for all the times over years
They have captured me
Saved me from myself
And offered tranquility
Inspired new will when hope ran away from me, and gave themselves to the world-all to the world
So selflessly
Time cannot claim what transcends
The limited
Carried on the undying wings of infinity
To live on
To live on
To live
On
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