the stench of the linseed
the almost moldy, cold, wet clay
the acid through the screen
the petrol in the ink
the lye in the dye
the musky perfume of the raw loom
aaaah the heavenly stench
in which we love to drench
our thirsts be quenched
in order to express
what must be freed from our chests
we forever are blessed
by the fumes that lure each creator
to the putrid and familiar
the unmistakable sirening
of the studio
the mess that calls us home
by the wafting of the odor
that becomes art’s aroma
and fills our lungs
so we may express our souls
j light MUSE 