Hearts are thrown at Strangers, aren’t they?
Splattered on a canvas
Or, scrawled on a wall.
Art
Is just a husk of form,
Without the artless agony
Of daily life:
The strangled scream
And the carving knife.
Splattered on a canvas
Or, scrawled on a wall.
Art
Is just a husk of form,
Without the artless agony
Of daily life:
The strangled scream
And the carving knife.
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