HOME | DD

Description
I dipped my brush in a palate of blood
And I readied my hand to create.
The paint is mixed with my tears and with mud.
Browns and reds are my colours of hate.

The fires of anguish blast through my bristles,
Every last livid lick, it feels fresh.
Scratches on skin, running fields of thistles;
Every stroke on my canvas of flesh.

Hands unsteady, eyes dry and unblinking,
My heart falls as hot heavy stones.
The vessel floats high; my own is sinking,
so I lean on my easel of bones.

Life left, and so dropped my brush on the floor.
In a heap I surveyed my mess made.
It got up and left, going toward the back door.
Oh, if with my last rasp, had I prayed.