Matter

Let genius with wild madness only rhyme,

'Tis feeling builds the bridge from verse to prime.

For in the ink, a human pulse must beat,

To make two distant, lonely spirits meet.

The brightest wit, a diamond's arctic gleam,

Without the heart's own fire, is but a dream.

My very heart I'll tear from its own cage,

And bleed its truth upon the empty page.

For beauty blooms from soil of deepest grief,

And sweetest songs are born of disbelief.

So let this anguish be my sacred art,

Exchanged for echoes that will never die.