What kind of people are they
One only understands normal
The other wants to be not
It's freedom's battle with order
To what a simple man must understand
The other needs not to know
Because freedom has an unknown end
How many of us have experienced ultimate reality
Where image dies and emotion lives?
Can you better believe in a stranger
Than one you know well?
If you see their art can you forgive anything
Even death by their own hand?
Is it because a painting lives forever
And that the hand that held the brush
Has now become immortal
No matter how impure?
Or how an untimely death that does not do us part
Is forgiven by those who beg for it to be so
A special feeling of the extremes
Such as for a murderer
Or someone who has shockingly become themselves
Is reserved for those who drink bone marrow cold
The raw matter inside every human being
But only remembered by those who weep without remorse