They told us to 

dig 

deep, deep, 

deeper. 

Excavate the deepest, darkest 

dark until we can hold it.

The formidable truths, 

the formidable shadows

of our secrets and woe’s.

Hiding in the 

corners of the ceiling, 

underneath the whiteout on the page — 

and only then

can art exist. 

Yet, they are offended 

at the allusions of suicide 

or drugs and loveless sex:

The deepest, 

darkest 

desires in our hearts. 

The most formidable rituals, 

inspired by our arts.