Broken Stars: A Warning to Artists

First I tread, and then I bled, on mounds of molten sea
my boiled feet, blistered with heat, white knives of blissful glee.
When slicing through my sickly flesh, they slid up through my knee,
And so I found, there pain abounds, on mounds of molten sea.

A dream I dreamt, as high above, red silent storms of Mars
The dream so violent, scorched with rage, a darkened knot of scars.
My ears leaked faith, when in a daze, I stumbled through the bars,
To drown my aching sorrows from the road of broken stars.

My hope was high, and heart too stern, when road I took to mind
The journey long, with ill reward, the hallowed, haunted kind.
The joy was pain, and pain was all, survivors none could find,
Yet still I walked, for dare I talk, the stars had made me blind.

A broken star is one far gone, no hope or prayer of fame,
From lifetimes spent in seeking praise, they crumble, mute and lame.
A rift is rendered in their heart, when no one knows their name,
For narrow is their focus while they put their art to shame.

So artists hear, your fatal flaw, for it your good traits spar,
It takes to them like epic winds, sharp shattered glass memoirs.
I tell you this, all artists work, for sake that it is ours,
Don’t be fooled by lures light, lest you turn to broken stars.