The Artist called “War”

Festival King

The ageless artist.
Vicious portrayals he reveals,
made with constantly evolving brushes
from stone, to steel, then fire;
Novel models now made nuclear.

Strokes of the brush hints the gush of red,
While the steadfast patron, his ecstasy’s fed,
A hate inspired vision created,
The canvas drenched in gory shade.

Mangled figures, a lifeless display
Unseen souls violently snatched away,
The Benefactor,
His fill he takes with each image portrayed.

In time we see the board wiped clean,
yet moved by hatred the artist births new scene
A mural of blood, flesh, sweat and tears
a horrid vision, the gods to bare.

The artist, unwavering and dissatisfied
Conjured by the darkness of human pride
Peace and love, his art deprive.
While hatred, in each heart reside.

His Masterpiece, yet unborn!
A display to end all earth spawn,
Thus these words I write to warn
“Keep far the novel brush
lest…

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