palette knife

The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade. A pale silver knife, not forged for war, I wield. I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed. The sky lies torn in strokes of celeste shade, each slash more raw, no truth left unrevealed— the canvas waits beneath a tempered blade. No brush can bruise the dark the way I’ve flayed these hues loose, their former grace repealed. I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed. My muse—half shadow, half cascade— emerges from each mark I will not shield. The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade. No line stays; no form can be obeyed. I seek what's felt, not what can be concealed. I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed. She stares back now, the shape that art mislaid— a scar turned sycamore across the field. The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade. I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.