True, I am a wreck,
Blood-soaked burgundy robes,
My claim to the royal throne
Of fame and fortune,
A car crash of
glowing metals & effervescent fumes
Or shipwreck where
rotting wood conceals treasured gold.
My art speaks because that little voice does,
Compelling me to risk a
Crash & burn
If I'm lucky,
and if we're not.

I have no choice but
Total breakdown
To build an empire from the shrapnel,
For energy is neither created
Not destroyed
But transferred
From our love to my expression.
True love is as fluid
As the metal magma
resolidifying
on the side of Highway 10
Or the swelling ocean
that holds her majesty
in a watery grave.

I'm sorry for your loss, but
I take solace in destruction;
it provides the raw materials
to forge my vision.