Have you come to my rescue?
Whole or in half,
Broken or torn?
As a teacher, a muse, a pupil,
Or my match?
Will you light the way to my dreams?
Or are you another I can’t learn from.
His words are truth,
The truth within my soul,
The only truth I know.
He doesn’t write from logic,
From poetic perception,
He doesn’t strive to embellish.
He doesn't only reveal his righteous,
tender bits: his aspirations of a better man.
He writes with his fingers but it is not
His flesh that composes.
His soul is the artist;
The master of truth and lies,
The savior of genuine expression.
Hell speaks through his pen
And heaven sees through his eyes.
Freeing bound hands and removing blind folds.
Releasing souls from chambers of dead hope,
To unveil corrupted truths
And heavenly lies,
To show men’s soul kingdom.
and planting seeds of light.
In dying flesh lies eternal existence,
Within a corrupted body dwells an angel;
Perceiving as men
But experiencing divine wisdom.
Burning through lies and igniting truth,
Living in hell and aspiring heaven;
There lays the artist,
There dwells the poet’s soul.