There is no art.
Only the scribblings of madness
Bled onto a paper or canvas
Dying to run out
To cure in the heat
Of our own light
Where it birthed
And died
In the same breath
Of each stroke
In each every hue
The story of us
leaks into the air
Onto a medium
That is set before us
on long sodden sheets
Originally white and pure
We then set apart
To begin
There is no art
Only Sin.