The wind's fingers reached into his collar,
pinching him with the cold
With another stroke of the paintbrush
The blue mixed with the gold

The walkers who ventured o’re the shore
Stared at the mumbling man
Whose teeth were stained with yellow
And drank to calm shaking hands

The burning lights blurred in the water
Pooling refractions and ripples
He captured the heavenly bodies
As the canvas he covered in stipples

Azure he blended with the indigo,
canary and honey and flax
The cool and the warm melded in one
candle and moon, wane and wax

Soft falls the light in the harbor
The stillness of night overcast
In the river he cleans off his brushes
And turns round for home at the last.

I spent all those years
painting achromatic smiles
on my sad muses.

Creativity cannot be conjured,
Without a little madness.
It is in the crazy that we find,
the beauty beyond us.

Strokes of paint mean nothing,
without a story or emotion.
In our medium we find ourselves,
Creation and Destruction.

The world here calls me a lunatic,
An amateur, a monstrosity.
But today you label me 'crazy',
Tomorrow you label me 'visionary'.

Sticky red blood in my foes
As I cut their flesh off,
Smelly rotten red liquid
Paints the white canvas in the room.