What madness is kindled in the flames of a brush?
The paint pours forth what the soul cannot
Allowing the eyes to see the soul's inner world of lust
A place that many stone hearts long ago forgot

For all can paint a tree if it stands before them
But I can tell you, there lies no honor in one
Who copies the world, for the joy of creation is not in him
His heavy heart and hands will tire before his task is done

But who can dream in colors not yet to be seen?
Who can dance to music that hasn't kissed the ears?
"Why!," the public cry, "That kind of talk is obscene.
We can only paint what has always been here!"

So who can interpret the world, so messy and unclean?
It's like the splatters of paint on my hands that dry
And tell colorful stories on my fingers and the cracks between
That, if we don't pay attention, will soon pass us by

So I will not create rules about the world or how to paint
I care not for shadows and textures and realistic shapes
The world is more than trees or dogs or angelic saints
Or marble bodies that stand in marble drapes

A circle of turquoise, a million spirals of green
My canary yellow canvas longs for only that
While some eyes only want what they've already seen
I've found the best way to live, and I call it abstract