Destiny's Madness~

The little house where the Erring Painter, the Erring Poet hid
They named it "Destiny's Madness."

A blind world, deaf mute world, lost "Fire's Passion" within falsity's clutter,
Burning the empire "Numb" to the ground-
It must have been "Fate", that tormented Shakespearean ghost-

Sad ashen people cry for Legend's lover warriors- Someone called out "Destiny's Madness!"
She rode in on her great mare and upon her dark open palm two delicate burning trees entangled roots, trunks twisting around one another, branches spun into branches...Eternity-

Destiny's Madness set them upon Earth;
Before those clouded eyes of the people, the two transformed...
Passion's flesh and bone - A painter and a poet ~

Risen ...
Resurrected spirits, he spun her form and soul,
First breath gasped upon bare canvas~

She spun him; her silver pen crafting him limb to imperfect limb,
Bone and flesh; his blood flowing onto ancient papers, poet's ink...
Painter risen, breathing in her whispers...

Dead ...
Oh, those dusty mad artists clawed through their worshiped torment tombs,
Rubbed black healthy dirt from their torn jackets, straightened shredded, twisted spines;
Remembering clay and color, burnt sienna moons,
Lovers beneath a soft stroke and dancing brush,
Secrets hidden within captured eyes, they never close to bury tempting curiosity-

Mute the self proclaimed expert translation,
Very little is as it seems...isn't it?

Artists, those who are mad hide treasures unseen...obviously;
And they rise to witness the birth of burning trees,
A painter and a poet~

Beginnings...
The little house where the Erring Painter, the Erring Poet hid;
They named it "Destiny's Madness."

She painted the door her infamous red;
He wrote "Within love" in black above the unmade bed,
That place, their secret sanctuary-

One face, a hidden tell tale wound, watches over them from that wall;
Above the painter's charmed easel...
Van Gogh searching, searching for Rachel behind every blinding star-

Look to the candle lit corner; see the poet's antique desk...
Upon it awaits flipped turned pages;
Who wears the notorious jacket? But pacing, pacing Sylvia Plath,
She whispers, whispers to Ted, to Anne..."Destiny is indeed quite mad."


Published Work Brandy Leah Schwan 2006