It was just a tiny little dot, a speck of dust in the universal expanse, that enigma wrapped in the vortex of time, the deluded visage of the sublime, the needle in the vein, mere shows instead, the desecration of the sacred dance. His feet were covered in blood, shattered glass on the floor – the mirror splattered with vows so broken, the rite thus devoided, those words dissolved in those waters of insouciance. They splattered across the canvas at random, the rootless tree, destined for the fall. So, too, the oasis, lacking its mandatory calm, soon vanishes into nothing at all. Thus would the Fates resume their winds anew, those wondrous winds of caprice, so the boat docks at the shore – a dream … that scream – so to once again bring them to their knees. Electrical symbiosis speeds through the pathways to vanquish solipsis, as the Nymphs flit about in the gentle night’s breeze. In the ruins of the temple he spies the rubble that was once his throne and altar … emanating from the shallow tomb rose the faint scent of attar. He was determined to never again project or paint so surreal a desperate perversion, nor to hang by that thread so dare, nor on that edge, nor on precision to cast aspersions, nor conjure acquaintance whose sacrifice he could not bear. So the fool so more who follows along, so much more nothing to drown in the same old dance and song. Yes, I do … all of it, all of it sideways and sometimes reverse. So, too, the oh-so-fickle twilight of this most ancient curse.
Wojciech Kilar - Blood On His Face