WARRING COLORS OF MIDNIGHT

Burst free from the prison of paint,

each stroke a cut, each line a wound, bleeding life onto glass

that’s cracked like the heart of this city�"time swirls too fast.

I breathe its dust, its ghosts that rise from asphalt’s murmur,

whispering, "Don’t linger,"�"the truth spills black and fierce,

dripping bold from a trembling hand, heavy with the world’s weight.

Colors clash like warring spirits�"white against grey,

the sirens howl, dreams crash against the concrete’s hard face.

Rust crowns the kings who walk barefoot on broken streets,

their steps ring out like war drums, striding through fire’s breath,

they know no surrender, no backward glance at fate’s demands.

Neon angels bend low, weeping tears of electric flame,

their halos scarred by the world’s tremor, carved deep by fears.

The echoes rise�"unbidden music of the streets, clinging to the air

like the breath of those who danced in darkness, who sang in shadow,

each beat a prayer, each note a defiant heartbeat.

The night grins with skulls that stare from the depths,

where shadows spin and twist, unseen but alive.

I am born of chaos, birthed by wild joy, my breath of fire,

each word a spark, and the canvas blazes with the fury I know.

Brush strokes roar�"red, black, gold like dawn’s fierce awakening,

and I hear the murmurs of those gone, their stories rustling in my ear,

untold but felt, a trembling song beneath my skin.

I paint because the world shivers cold,

and art is the fire that warms the bones, a refuge carved in stone.

Madness spills from my steady hand,

life’s line is jagged�"no straight path, but wild and winding,

a crown of dust upon my brow, spray can held tight,

I scrawl my name across the world’s breath,

a curse and a blessing, an unbroken flame.

:: 10.08.2024 ::