Salem’s Childe – Sacred Sun

The latest single from my band, Salem’s Childe. The music video was done by The Stormworks (my media production brand).

If you like what you see and hear, we’d love to have you as a fan and follower. Hit those like and subscribe buttons, and definitely that share button.

The song is available to stream and buy through Amazon, iTunes, Spotify, and Bandcamp.

 

Legacies

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To The Lost

I didn’t know you.

Except I did.

I, just like the rest of the world, knew you. I knew your music. Your poetry. Your art. Your expression.

I knew your joy. Your pain. Your love. Your anger. Your sorrow. Your hate. Your despair.

I knew your success and I knew your failures. I knew your struggles and I knew your fight to endure, to rise after each collapse, to continue on when others might have fallen.

I knew your vices and your follies.

I knew your demons.

And I knew your Muse.

I knew you without ever knowing you, because of what you gave me, because of what you shared with me, and the rest of the world.

I never met you, but I knew you, and you knew me. Because you were me. And everyone else that you ever spoke to… spoke for.

You were my voice while I was finding my own. You were a voice for those who didn’t have one. And the world heard you.

And knew you… and because of you, knew me.

You were Scott. You were Dime. You were Jimi. You were Kurt. You were Layne. You were Janice. You were John. You were Jani. You were Randy. You were Freddy. You were Bob. You were Shannon. You were Dave. You were Jim. You were Cliff. You were Jeff.

And so many more.

You’re gone now, but still you remain. There is legacy. There is hope. And there are those not yet born who will also know you.

You’ve left us behind. But you’ve left everything you were with us.

And in that–in us–you will live.

Of Prometheus

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The deepest hours of night pale in comparison to the abyssal depths of the artistic mind–a place where things unsafe and unmeant to be lurk waiting to be given life, shades of the horrors of Man that fortunately find little more than glimpses of life as a sparks extinguished as rapidly as they ignite. And we, the keepers of the arts, are the wardens of a great many mysteries. But for the tortured artistic mind, that soul in anguish and torn apart by the vices and vicissitudes of life and love, the monsters are real, and we become their servants. We are not misunderstood, we are not mad; we are simply not bound by the strictures of a world that does not want us or our creations, and cannot fathom the depths of our being nor decipher the ink that stains our souls. We are victims of our own making to the monsters we have freed, those abominations that those who are considered “normal” fear out of ignorance and misunderstanding. But they, our children, are our masters, and we, the makers of the unmade, their willing and condemned servants. We are the damned, confined to the world we create, limited only in our expression, consumed by the fires that we kindle. Yet it is truly only there, in the depths of the loneliness and despair thrust upon us by the rest of you that we, the forsaken wretches of love, find ourselves in what we create. And while we never ask for understanding, we dare you to peer into those depths and converse with we who burn the world. And in weighing your own limitation and finite existence, you will know us to be gods.