an empty canvas stares at the muse
like a fleshless soul haunting the blood in her veins
splattered paint taints the sun and sheds light on her rotten hues
tears of a muse that poison the lamented
the agony of the dead claws at her skin
her throat mirroring the caws of the ravens in their nest
she bears the mourning of a million sorrows
her love was forsaken when he cleaved her heart for hell’s fire
a possessed being he became for the love he borrowed
romantic delusions weaved her blind delight
the hands of God could not lift the veil that left her mystified
while the devil guarded his heart like a macabre knight
tears of an artist who picks up his paint brush from Hades lethe
the apathy he wields stabs her in reverence for the dead
a man whose heart oozes stale blood can only steal her last breath
the love of a man is contempt that has been sealed
his art is an ode to those who detest their lover’s hearts
the wood from his canvas is the devil’s shield
oh how he paints!
he dips his brush and paints and paints until her eyes are vacant
the muse, his muse, has become a specter of his own craft
one after another the blots of paint mock her figure
his still gaze consumes the wounds on her breast
the angels suffocate her and capture her last whimper
tears of the dead that cradle her lips as she looks up at the moon
the resentment written on her tongue becomes her rune
the corpse on his canvas can only smile as his love withers away too soon