I wanted to paint a picture, about something beyond the eyes of the common folk, about that which is closer still, yet.. still within my Sight, beyond my Touch.

I'm but a lowly poet, a wanderer amongst the dreams of Men, a surveyor, a creator, a craftsman.
My palms have flowed along many a seam, my digits have traced along many a dream,
my tools had bled me, the soothing melody of my heart throbbing those gentle warm streams.

Yes, I wanted to paint a picture, but as I bled I closed my eyes, and realized that what I sought is beyond the simple pleasures and ecstacy of my self harming ways,
those ways that cut me up and broke me down till I bled and bled till I almost drowned.

So long ago I had felt the ripples that pushed me asunder, and I felt the strain tearing me whole, ripping at my very sanity, aching my soul, how it longed for a breath,
And upon this I was judged.. of my blood that flowed in my works, those dreams and fantasies I had crafted and held dear, as I sunk deeper and deeper into this vortex of my soul,
closer and closer I could feel it all making sense, my past, my histories.. My Story.
And the judgement, so far below the surface of this amazing precipice, while my wings had been flared, ready to leap further into the unknown.. dealt me the blow..
in my hesitance I missed a beat, and the unforgiving pressure around me crushed my being.. so I struggled no more
And when my remains surfaced, I didn't tread that way anymore.
I didn't dive into the depths to seek release, didn't seek the answers to myself..
I was swept into shallower waters, never given a glance or second thought to the treasures that still lay beneath the dark waters, in the abyss of my soul. Never once more had they called for me like a Siren's song..
the world was still.. and my creations.. as I wandered, I left them far behind me.. seeking another outlet.. to meditate upon..
Once this was found, it brought only temporary joy.. and another.. and another..
It was easier to bleed out, craft what flowed from me to a blank sheet..

The Songs I've listened to fell silent, and without a tune I no longer could follow my Sight, my Touch.. I no longer could create or meditate upon this blank malleable plates..

I forgot how to See, to Feel, to Touch.

I've grown distant, my soul became, cool.. hardened, closed to me all that had made and created me.
Denied me my keys.

And as I sought, for what I lost, to gain the entry once more to the worlds I have laid the foundations to, the worlds that have developed, that have grown...
the worlds and words I forgot..
I found this trestle;

I had been an artist.. once, before Words, during Words, beyond Words.
I could paint a picture, and now I sit..

Before this empty canvas, my paint run dry. My brush in my claws, as a lonely brown tail flicked the dust from a table top.
Glancing back, all those books and stories I've recounted, glancing forward the doors I once more long for.

A lowly poet, etching away their thoughts, as the lightning licked against the grand ancient halls, flickering flames upon the creaking chandeliers with the howling winds, from this storm that's raging under greyer skies.