Yin and yang
push and pull
when light and dark
breed and breathe.
Tears call from his blues.
I stagger,
to draw a line, I'm scrambling
but my pencil lead keeps breaking
as per canvas bumps keeps knocking
before even trying.
If I had the means to make a stroke;
I'd have saved him from his cranny,
I'd have saved him from rendering fool as his surname.
Even humble souls trans sour;
even brilliant visions dim to a meek glaze.
His legacy subsides,
as blind blues are frosted to the flair in front of them.
what talent to have style
in both blindness and foolishness.
how an essence so ideal can form
from creativity and debauchery
His callous heart is self-inflicted,
insisting love's reincarnate bare fruits so plentiful
each cycle.

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