The Bull

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I stare into the eyes of the bull that tears at my mind from my painting,
heart heavy and dull as it is sunken with 1000 moons.
I fear what I see before me, that I cannot breath
I fear to allow it to breath,
knowing that it's madness is only a reflection of my madness,
and not knowing if I have the stregnth to ride the terror and fury.
but I will take it by the horns,
and ride it into the wind.
I have walked through death before,
I will stare it in the eye and face it.
The eye of the bull is a mirror of my own.
On the otherside, looking in.
What madness madness it must see in my reflection,
tumolted in a world pitter pattered pigment,
writhing it it's own death and decay,
life springing from the dust and rott.
Heavens moaning as we vomit stars.
explosions blotting out our eyes in crystaline patterns that tell of all things.
I know what Poe felt when the raven was knocking at his door.
I dare not speak it, lest I make it real.
Pound the earth and hear it's echoed drum,
let it rain and thunder in the skies....
or is it too, just a prisoner like I.