And here, as the faun approaches the
sleeping woman. As
the first shot is fired.
Blood, yes, but not from anyone
you know, and it’s an old story.
Picasso opens his door to the news of
a friend’s suicide.
Pollock sits by his kitchen window all
winter, waiting for the day he starts
painting again, and the ending has already
been written, but it’s this silence that
matters. It’s the
lovers who will be
left behind after the war takes hold. It’s
the myths that will be devoured.
We have never invented a god
who wasn’t hungry for power.
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