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Am i dead, or am i not?

Lost are we, are we not?

life or death, of non i know sleeping thus,

my mortal shell.

Fool's in life and in death, puppet's all of them, all of us...puppet's, wearing our faceless mask's...puppet's to our master's, mortal desire's

Can you not see, she have no tear's in her eye's

Can you not hear, she have no cry in her voice

Can you not feel, her deep bitter pain within



But she dose, she dose most murcifully have the bristal brush in her clumsy hand, the faded ink apon the sodden papper. These are her voiceless tearless pains for a tearless voiceless artist in pain. These are her tear's, her cries', an artist in pain. Why dose she do art... why in deed.



They ask her "why dose your art alway's weep?"

I say"because i have no more tear's". So they ask again ''why dose your ink always bleed?"

and i answer "becuase the world has no more love". They ask once more "...But why are you smiling thus?". And thus i say as i look up from my art smiling still "Becuase...there is no more hope.



year's of love can be forgotten in a moment of hatred...it's such a pitty.