The Solo Artist
Written by Jonathan Henderson
Sunday April 6, 2014 @ 9:23 PM
God bequeathed to all a Sunday to visit His home
For a quick parable, a tale, and I rode home insane,
Fathoming all in abject vain, traveling South from
My blue Heaven to the raging infernos of a Hell so
Familiar to the senses that it is my sight within the
Fair mirror - and I, the narcissist, the rage always
To engulf my silence on the surface demure, soft,
But altogether jagged, points so razor blade sharp
At the ends of the pits, I know not how nor where
I am to measure the depths within a facial contort
Or the Bowie knife purging the cowardice of thy
Humble spirit, far less that in only the skin's depth
Never to be quantified, only the story of I, the solo
Artist's pain having never seen nor believed in my
Own heart's desire prior its decline of an age never
To have been lived in sin with my party in crime.
Written by Jonathan Henderson
Sunday April 6, 2014 @ 9:23 PM
God bequeathed to all a Sunday to visit His home
For a quick parable, a tale, and I rode home insane,
Fathoming all in abject vain, traveling South from
My blue Heaven to the raging infernos of a Hell so
Familiar to the senses that it is my sight within the
Fair mirror - and I, the narcissist, the rage always
To engulf my silence on the surface demure, soft,
But altogether jagged, points so razor blade sharp
At the ends of the pits, I know not how nor where
I am to measure the depths within a facial contort
Or the Bowie knife purging the cowardice of thy
Humble spirit, far less that in only the skin's depth
Never to be quantified, only the story of I, the solo
Artist's pain having never seen nor believed in my
Own heart's desire prior its decline of an age never
To have been lived in sin with my party in crime.
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