Dan Enache | + Follow Poet |
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He wanders through the neon nights, an artist out of place

He wanders through the neon nights, an artist out of place,
Unfit for this life tethered by chains, this era devoid of grace.
A time of empty haste, progress but an illusory facade,
A life starving for life, the dull embrace of bureaucracy.
In his soul, a shadow lies, forbidding a full embrace,
Of this absurd and frantic world, a chaotic, endless chase.
Even as a child, he felt the fire, an unrelenting burn,
An unrealized wild freedom, a shadow fierce and stern.
An ancient power stirs within, dwelling in the abyss,
A ghostly whisper in the night, in esoteric spells.
Convulsing, throbbing, like an ecstatic gypsy,
He tries to wash the darkness away, with morality as his lance.
He bows to social normalcy, the sanctity of those,
Who walk in daylight, unaware of imposing shadows.
Yet deep inside, the daemon roars, taunting, hounding, wild,
Forcing him from the dark cell of Self, into realms beguiled.
Creative floods engulf his mind, destructive forces intertwine,
His soul longs for something more, a truth it must find.
This profound force compels him, expression is his aim,
Even if it costs him all — reputation, name.
It tempts the body, the shell of the soul, to live in wild defiance,
To overturn the tables of routine, and reject all blind compliance.
Archaic flames ignite his core, illuminating his being's depths,
Coalescing dark and light, awakening profound awareness.
He cannot wear an ordinary mask, endure mundane acts,
Nor play the games of ordinary life, governed by such contracts.
An exile in his native time, misunderstood by his peers,
A wanderer, a mockery, amidst chloroform-like sneers.
The emptier they are inside, the more they flaunt outside,
But he seeks none of their status games, nor joins them in their pride.
He chooses poverty over toil devoid of true creation,
Autonomy over chains, in art he finds salvation.
He flees from banality, this modern world’s deceit,
Choosing instead perilous steps, towards primal forces' heat.
He knows his fate — to suffer alone, in melancholy's embrace,
To wade through despair’s swamp, when the muse begins to displace.
But when inspired, he lights up, electrified with power,
His heart bubbling with raw rapture, his spirit takes to flight.
Transformed, he is a pure vessel, for vast and mighty forces,
Sacrificing all he is, to heed the urgent call.
 "O melodies from above, divine,
To you, to you, I rise. "

Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2024

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