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 ART!

He painted my death,
With such dedication I've never seen before.
Every stroke of his brush, on that paper, marking out each curve, twist, and turn my body made
As I writhed in pain.

Premeditated murder, or a death masquerading as suicide, or perhaps just an unlucky soul.
My hands on my throat as I choked to death,
He didn't need to add a drop to my tea to pronounce me dead.
Because every time I brushed his gift to me,
I was gasping and blushing at how beautifully he depicted my death,
And swore that it was breathtaking.

It was really breathtaking!

My body was found lying on the green grass,
Sprawled in a weirdly shaped position, just as he had predicted.
I gave him his last gift:
A live picture of me modeling his artwork, in afterlife.
Who would know that arsenic was the green-dye monster,
But was also made into a painting to die for.
Emer

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