The Artist's Dance

The room was full of artist, the abandoned and the lost, and even the redundant, all were out in force. The mike blared bestiality, brutality, divorce; and even loves most precious gifts, in angry flames were tossed. The piercings and the black tattoos, strobe, colored lights embraced, the tracks of terror , tear-filled nights, depressed upon each youths face. Kohl black eyes in somber garb, with scars, scabbed on wrist and souls; in drunken haze or drugged dazed phrase, Their stories all are told. In rivulets of cruel crimson, their black boils are set to lance; leaving pale pink pock marked placards in memories of the Dance. The room was full of artistsans all their arms were opened wide; their eyes where full of wonder their hearts so filled with pride A pride in giving of themselves, pride in the taking too; for if not for tortured artists the world would not be so true.