Twisted Maleficarum turned abomination

desperately seeking a return to one's humanity.

Expelling demons,

pumping passion like the blood that summoned them.

 

Bleeding tears, sweating fears

soaked in trepidation.

 

Summon some feeling

no time for healing

when paint is just pain with

twin pronged brush strokes.

 

Tattered, trying, tonal

carving truths into wretched parchment

highlighting the moment in blissful agony.

 

Why replenish the mana, the magic

- when tortured souls ignite

music upon an over-arching canvass?

 

This world enjoys the pain

makes dreams out of nightmares,

as fade fears seep through the veil.

 

The unregulated mage

knows boundless creativity,

knows fear, knows emotion,

knows the limitations of being unlimited.

Omnipotence is not as potent

as facts swill in a poison chalice

watered down by hate, praise and platitudes.

 

Life is a game, a horror story

with no ending

as mirage becomes truth

and truth becomes art.

 

The tortured artist becomes a cliché

as critics and academics peek from castle roofs,

upon their agony.

 

History, an age, a timeless watch tower

where whispers, myths and legends

are one with memories.

All else is forgotten

or worse immortalized.

 

I plunge a dark staff

deep into my heart

and write...