Caravaggio’s Boys

their youth preserved in oil and blood
moments held in gilded frames
such poverty misunderstood
as they played gods and saintly games
yet did they all as young men die
in corrupt squalor’d states enslaved
did such fates as these attract his eye
thus with his hand their image saved

Mortem Artis

is set aside the golden lyre
forgot the pointed quill
the canvas stretched remains unspoiled
the wheel it sits quite still
no strings to sing a lover’s song
no ink a heart to spill
colours crack upon the wood
as art requires life’s skill
dust has gathered on the dreams
that fuelled his ballad’s fill
the muse has left the vacant form
no more to drive his will.

Shame All Of The Poets

shame all of the poets
for their art dares to condemn
that which we are sold as truth
by more moral men
imprison verse contentious
that move against the creed
deny their revolution
and the questions that they breed
censor and damn the artists
who try to realise
the beauty that is hidden
from more blinded eyes
sacrifice the poets
on the altars of your lies
but beware, in doing so
their words you’ll sanctify.