IRC-Galleria

"Too much frustration
since he first failed in creating
a picture of words, of himself
pure like a young dove
now hurt in the wing
carried far wherever winds blew
until his muse had lost her name

How can't you read the signs of disappointment
written across his face?
framing downcast eyes that see beauty only in the most ordinary of things
and ignore everything else

To feel capable of new creations
even the kind still possible to be
unchained in a language known only to worn artists:
blinded painters, deafened musicians
and muted poets such as himself

To open more pages in unfinished stories
that have several chapters missing

Before his muse and he are parted"