Drawing on that pasty white canvas just wasn't enough
cold and sharp, her paintbrush left it's deep red marks
across her torso, her canvas,
her past masterpieces living on
in puckered lines that told of destruction
A disgustingly beautiful tale
of pain and never ending grief.
Hope was out of reach
her fall had taken her too deep
invisible hands held her fast
and pulled her into the depths of that dark,
dark pit
where no one heard a single scream
or cry for help
and so she let herself be drowned
by tears and thoughts of no way out
and bloody artistry to last forever.
And so she made her bed
with darkness and slumber, permanent rest
the end of her story
the finishing touch of her masterpiece
she carved her name, her signature
left her mark in darkness for Death to see
in hopes he would remember
that she once belonged to Life.
And as she prepared to lay down her head
upon that pillow of the end
a distant voice calling out-
dim light shone
an out- stretched hand
told her that she was enough
her scars and her fears
were worth His blood
23
The Fallen Artist