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Michael McGuire
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Imitation of Art
Life broken in to the dismal minutes,
And the days of the mirrored past,
And where in the desert's broken bones,
Is the skull whose mind was in a cast,
And now whose brave foot treads these wastelands,
And who will die here without a sound,
In this place of fantasy's delight,
In this discovery yet unfound.
If it means life it means more but not much,
Lost in between the feeling and the touch,
Yeah the truth is based on fiction,
And desire the disguise of addiction.
Sifted between possibilities and absolutes,
The cosmic weather is no place for a life raft,
A sculpted feeling and a brushwork reply,
Makes you want to cry so you just laugh,
In between the silence and the throbbing vein,
A world in motion to create a life,
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With every twisted reason; every focal doubt,
Art stands in between the killer and the knife.
If it means life it means more but not much,
Lost in between the feeling and the touch,
Yeah the truth is based on fiction,
And the engine runs on friction.
Days and deeds and all the framework,
Blend tradition and style into a masterpiece,
Now it seems twice removed when it felt so real,
But it's not the renaissance or ancient Greece,
The machine of color is stuck on white,
What painter's hand can detail the scene,
The soul is shattered and revived as it struggles forth,
Just to know if the meaning is what it means.
Yeah the truth is based on fiction.
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