Awaken, as from a tormented sleep with eyes anxiously looking to creep beyond this twisted dementia displayed on the walls
Mysterious mindsets and ink-droplets fall
Muses take flight in an all out war
Shall I catch it with open hand?
Or let it fall and start again?
Such words burn the skin
So, enter stage right, mic in hand
Before the micro-cosm, stand
Display my efforts, after all, don't expect them recognized
Hourly torture, chaos ignite!
Beauty and art give a sign of life
But, as Balzac and Hardy profess, the martyr will burn for her canvas
Elusive horizon, I'm not a threat
You see, I'm for some reason always on trial
Object of destination -- always on trial
O, Solitude!
With thee I dwell!
With thee I dwell is our assiduous, gated hell
Trivial -- this mind and spirit world
You can't compare their worth to what is real
At it's best, all critics must confess, this work can outlive death -- so what is real?
Because I can't describe half the shit I feel inside your crimes
Targeted intent eviscerating innocence
I swear I'm not a threat
Put down your defense
All I can do is watch in awe feet raking the sand, hands bound by molten ire
As the broad guillotine blade sinks into the horizon, streams of burning gold burst forth from ultramarine expansive veins and reach towards me, lending heat to the air, as the Earth is sliced in half and the dividing line approaches
For every stage turned wonderland, for every sound turned song, for every song turned experience, for every hour turned long

Accablées de misère en décembre, les muses se baignent en flammes
Noyées dans l'ombre elles disparaissent, attendant le divin pientre de l'Univers, le Soliel