The ages grow long between the nights of the silence, and the darkness grow deep
In this ever-expanding gallery, displaying scenes from movies never made,
Playing songs never sung, and snuffing out the candles never lit.

The self-destruction of a self-portrait, painted by the crooked hands of separation,
Long-distance, short-sighted, the fix on momentary counterfeit seduction,
Turn the hands of time, steady onward to the next obsession.

The artist takes the burning brush and shakes the ashes on the empty parchment,
And the poet, the jar of frozen ink, and shatters it on an everlasting rock
As it rolled away downhill once more to await its next ascent.

A tired old scribbler watches on, sitting in the twilit breeze of regrets and damned
Recollections of abandoned dreams, flayed and burned by the endless
Perpetual existence in between the nights of silence.

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