On a bench, in a lonely park, sat two silhouettes, one bright, one dark:
Darker than night, voiceless and blind, a harrowing sight; it lives in pure pain, through perpetual rain, a mistake of the lords, a sacred melody played on the wrong chords.
It lives and it stays, it claws through days and days, it never feels a ray of light, try as it might...
Brighter than stars, lovely to us, reserved for memoirs; it's life is pure glory, worthy of a grand story, a gift of the skies, a god that fire speaks and thunder cries.
It lives in our hearts, nonexistent outside arts, it takes the whole light of the sun, grasps it tightly before a mad run...
On a bench, in a lovely park, our bodies sit divided, between life and art, one dark, one bright, one revered, one not, one found, one sought,
one we desire to be painless, one we enjoy more when not.
On a bench, in an ashen park, charred bones pile on top of a wounded heart, that can't, nor wants to be healed by any means, but art.