The Sum.

A flick of my hand,

and colors will raise,

becoming alive in every possible way.

They’ll walk behind me

and protect me from danger.

They will become my shield and my weapon.

They will become my friends and my allies.

They will become the messengers and the message.

A flick of my wand,

a wand so pure and so noble

it has been part of me since the beginning

of time;

a flick of it,

and colors will be imprinted forever.

A smell of sweet oil

that fills my lungs with desire

and lust for creation;

a smell of it,

and body and spirit shall become one.

A cold touch of turpentine

and my craving shall morph into need,

then my need shall morph into action;

a touch of it,

and I will find myself dancing among

water-color incubuses.

A sense of the air

that has been carefully mixed

for my mind to secretly elope with my feelings.

A sense of the air

that has made me a slave of its effect,

a slave of it,

a slave for it.  

A sense of this air

and I shall defeat my eremophia

to hide in my self and never be sane again.

I am what people despise,

but whom they admire.

I am the tortured, misunderstood,

unacknowledged genius.

I am what people call a madman,

but I call myself an artist.