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Rachel
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Rachel
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The Painter
Sunday, April 13, 2008/ 11:45 PM
It is white.
An empty white canvas With a palette of red. Landing on the broken bristles, They smiled and closed. He had what he needed. Emphasizing his control in balance, Every accidental stroke was covered In a fiery passion of what burned deep within. More red, he needed more red. He was red. The pastel an intense sanguine. He continued to stroke and brush His hopes, his dreams, his expectations Embedding them in the deep red canvas. He was immortalized. He lay on the linoleum floor, His hands stone cold as he ran through The impasto of neglected history, Vitrolic tones and acerbic words. They smiled and closed. In a simple gesture of formality, They stepped out of the canvas - In search for him, but Where was he? The auburn stains spoke the lies Of the truth in their comfort Lines of red draining His pale aura lying forgotten - Wasted. Too much paint wasted. Ignoring the rara avis, Unwanted tears fell over The pallid skin of what remained That was not meant to be remembered. He was white. It was an empty red canvas, Caught in the scarlet flames of the furnace Of his soul in the world That turned to ash at their touch. They killed him. (Guess its been a really long time since I've written anything substantial at all. This isn't too good with my head in a mess, but anyhow, enjoy.) Labels: Compositions, Thoughts |