He didn’t tell me to write about him

This world is too much to take

The other one’s a blur

He hangs on dearly to our lives

One side then the other

Dwelling among the barely clad

His ego sweats to keep up

Elusive, phantom, much hyped…

His studio alone constitutes the world

Absurdity at its best – theories conspire

Do we even pause to hear him laugh?

After all; it’s his strings, his mud!

Effortlessly, he finds his way to us

Beauty enslaved, perfection redefined

Crying…he warns in light and sound

Too many pictures…all mute to our queries

Is our eternity only a train-ride away?

Is inflicting death a pain to his faith?

Lust, greed, riots…so much of smoke

Must sting his eyes

But he looks on – upon his own

Through and thorough

Slaughter, slaughter…all that blood

Spills in his territory

In our perishing, what gets he?

Bored and lonely, he cooks emotions

Shhh…secret recipes

A human heart and a thousand guinea pigs

A blue-black canvas spreads where crystals float

He sells it to lovers as a starry sky

I call him my friend

He slashes my heart

Elaborates my emptiness

Moves his strings and makes me cry

Then he gifts his words

Inside the ruins of broken dreams

And hides behind his own shadows

Last night, his sparks ignited my dreams

He was too modest to tell me

But I somehow I knew – God deserved a description!