He Who Paints the Black of the Night

A painter I have been
For as long as I can think
But never quenched the feather
Into the firkin of black ink
My motif's been of beauty
Diluted and too light
My stroke of brush is worthless
Until I paint the black of night

A darkened empty room
A screen in dreadful white
Waiting for the flame of inspiration to ignite

So I begin my work
I sweep the brush through black
A line of the horizon
Now there is no coming back
But to my great excitement
Like in a secret rite
With trembling hand I paint
And fill the cloth with night

Deeper and deeper
I fall into trance
I am led by a sorcerous hand
With death in my eyes
And madness at heart
Grandeur is cast into art