To love an artist, bleak and true
Is to dance with shadows in the blue
Of midnight’s stars, closed doors and end
Where right and wrong both seem to bend

I see the world through fractured glass
Each shard is a story from the past
A poet’s eyes, so keen, so deep
Yet through them, only darkness seep

I paint my life in shades of grief
Each word, a sigh, each black lieve
Every flower from heartache bloom
I carve my ecliptic longitude, my tomb

You wonder why my joy is brief
Why love must always end in grief
But poets’ hearts are bound in chains
To sorrow’s muse, to endless rains

Darkness, my chosen muse
In liquid solace, thoughts diffuse
A friend to poets, they will say
Yet drowns the light, keeps hope at bay

In pain my truth resides
A poet’s shelter, where he hides
Depression’s cloak is warm, it fits
But pulls me down, where darkness sits

You try to love me, yet you see
The weight of my complexity
For poets, love’s a fleeting guest
A visitor, who cannot rest

In lonely nights, I pen my fears
In scribbled verses, stained with tears
To love an artist, broken, scarred
Is to hold a flame, forever charred

Yet in this gloom, if light you’d find
A soul like yours, so rare, so kind
Perhaps my heart, though bruised, may heal
If love can teach a poet to feel