The Artist Inside

The Artist Inside

Atlas never adapted,

Never could adjust the axis;

Now the moon darkles…

My head spins, all nerves and nauseous,

Mourning that art is dead,

I seek inspiration in all the old myths that sparkle,

They only glimmer faint;

The stars are so far away…

But still I look, toward the horizon,

Hope forever burning a sun inside

This hopeless romantic…

While I live I shall watch for nether regions and virginal tales

All terror or humor or woe;

Though they are hard to find,

I simply cannot allow that theatre of heart

To call the curtain;

The camera can never wrap;

I will not bow, it will not close.