I wandered cloud-like, so blithely floating,
PAINTED emotions on mountain and plain,
THE impact satisfied, leaving me gloating,
PICTURE misunderstood, critiqued again.
AND for a phase, flattery turned and charmed.
IN times of silence clouds rarely inspired,
THE goad of success fully disarmed,
COLOURS then jaded, grey matter tired.
THE days floated aimlessly, no rhyme nor reason,
RHYTHM imprinted and darkly embossed.
OF evidence obvious...finished, my season,
THE drive to make beautiful objects quite lost.
MUSIC of funeral dirges depressed,
QUIVERS emotional, stolen my rest.
Quote (upper case): Edvard Munch
* Please note...this is pure fiction please do not be concerned.
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