The Artist

Make the artist use nought but black,
Paint all the flowers grey,
Turn your eyes until they face back,
To see your mind in its dismay.

Silence the musician's instrument,
Cut out the poet's tongue,
Make static from your love's lament,
And hear the saddness I have won.

I did these things unto myself,
So don't try to help me now,
Rather turn your back and use your stealth,
Get away from me somehow.
odc