There are no haunted places,
Just people haunted by pasts and presents.
There is nothing not worth expressing,
For no one has lived without falling.
Not everyone can dream so celestial,
For most people’s understanding is but elliptical.
Not everyone can make with pain such a tryst,
For not everyone can be called artist.
The artist writes till his fingers bleed out his soul,
The artist paints till his art paints out his ghosts.
The artist strums through the emptiness in his heart,
The artist lets his sculpture be his art.
The breadth of the artist’s inner wings,
Cannot be measured by man-made things.
For everyone is but too sane,To make beauty from so much pain.