The Human Artist

What treks must this man meander,
in human flesh living and pulsing  breath,
with time dripping and decaying throughout his veins
and so.. his soul has come to live a dying life of borrowed time,
whispering slivers of slippery  inner truth
woven within toiled disaster:
how does it happen?
    his smile?

What treks must this man wander,
en-spiraled  by a fated destination
he knows no end, but a life only of echos 
never for him to hold only embrace shadows.
But he is of a  punctured sanity and mind,
of all that is,
is all that falls:
his reality fails to connect,
  like snapped tendon and sinew
it retracts,  rejects  and manifests insanity of
an artist's mutilated heart.
how does it happen?
his creations?


What treks must this artist meander?
he who forsakes his reality,
creates  the insanity of imagine fantasy,
he leads a life with little lies, but with less truth.
In his life he makes up a true story,  more beautifully whole than reality;
dedicated to his art 
he is bound together by his every fiber and molecule
to fight for the spark of life, and to give the ultimate gift
to his beloved creations.
how does it happen?
his life? His creation?

What trek must this man wander,
With a series of broken wings and faithful endings,
a man of a hermit heart and body,
made of no humanity but scarred by it,
eyes, the taste and  shock  of arctic seas kissed by blinding sun
hands of a father warm, protective as the sun is of its  earth
with the wide shoulders of broken angels, where the world rests it reining weight:

  Here is a man. ..

Here is a man  lost in the only embrace of  his creations,
here is a man loved in the only disgrace of his self-destruction,
here is a man
of borrowed time and dying life.


How does it happen? 

His life?

  His light?
His creation..

and
his destination?

How does it happen
      and..
What trek must this man meander?