Mad is the poet in the wilderness,
Crying at the moon for its brightness.
Full of the pink of the cherry blossoms,
falling like snow.
Lost is the sculptor in creation,
Tearing at the clay like a fireman.
Digging to release the young maiden,
Quiet, the songwriter listens,
Dumbstruck by the sounds of the angels,
Singing in the bells of the windchimes,
at his window.
Still is the arm of the painter.
Staring at the orange of the sunset,
Drying out her tongue as she watches.
mouth in an O.
Bright is the heart of the artist,
Screaming at himself for his blindness,
Seeking to show all, but revealing
just a shadow.