tayyabmuhammadtariq“Always the poet, never the muse”
The blood runs hot, yet the pen is cold today,
The painting smiles, yet the head cries today,
A lot has been lost, the muse, the ink, the face,
Yet, I paint today, the ragged breath, the decomposing hands, the laughing colors.
I bury myself in the stone, I burn myself on the ground
I cut my head off, the blood sprays on the canvas
As is the pain, as is the muse laughing at itself
The halls are so silent, yet the laughs…
Couldn’t I be Dorian, my painting eaten away,
Couldn’t I be Gogh, the happiness making its way,
But I couldn’t be, for the happiness kills itself in reality,
For the angel of death only laughs and the life cries,
Such is the methodology of life, such is the cries of heart,
The pen cries the ink dries, and the muse laughs…