He is a total artist.
Pure non-conformist.
His creative genius,
Burning like fire.
But he is mired.
Stuck in darkness.
For it is fueled,
By a sludge,
This fire.
Made of the remains,
Of every grudge.
From the oily residue,
Of every pain,
Both old and new,
Burns the flame.
It will never go out,
Because the pain,
Will never run out.


8 thoughts on “Residue

    1. That would be me. 🙂 Thank you for stopping by. And I’m always gratified to make the acquainted of another poet. Especially one so talented.

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