He Who Paints The Black Of Night

A painter I have been, for as long as I can think.
But never quenched the feather into the firkin of black ink.
My motif’s been of beauty, diluted and too light.
My stroke of brush is worthless until I paint the black of night.

A darkened empty room, a screen in dreadful white.
Waiting for the flame of inspiration to ignite.

So I begin my work, I sweep the brush through black.
A line of the horizon, now there is no coming back.
But to my great excitement, like in a secret rite,
with trembling hand I paint and fill the cloth with night.

Deeper and deeper I fall into trance.
I am led by a sorcerous hand.
With death in my eyes and madness at heart,
grandeur is cast into art.

Of the shadow, of the sin and death therein.
And darkness fills my sky!
Of the brave and seldom kin is he who paints the night.

By a magick arrangement and the assistance of fate,
stroke by stroke I descend into the abyss I create.

Deeper and deeper I fall into trance.
I am led by a sorcerous hand.
With death in my eyes and madness at heart,
grandeur is cast into art.

Of the shadow, of the sin and death therein.
And darkness fills my sky!
Of the brave and seldom kin is he who paints the night.

From that secret fountain, henceforth I will be fed.
Never shall I leave its haunt until the day I hail the dead.
I vomit on your junk and piss on your false skill.
You will never understand the glory of good and ill.

Shadow, darkness, death and sin, hold off from this pack.
You will never be complete until you paint the night in black.