A poem inspired by The Muse of Cold Earth.
The Art
Transubstantiation in the blood transfusion
You are an artist, and all you’re paints turn to blood
Turn to wine
The holiest of holies
A quaking cavern rumbling with lion’s roars
But His voice is small and quiet
Creation comes through the benefit of the doubt
Who is and isn’t behind
The brush
While whittling away at husks of dead emotion
Crackling like the thunder that commanded
Do Not Write Down What I Have Said
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