THE PERFECT CRIMSON
He’s a great painter,
hands skilled in light and shadow,
canvas after canvas bending to his will.
Landscapes, faces, still lifes
he’s captured them all,
each stroke praised, each color admired.
But this painting,
this one refuses to bend.
He needs the crimson pomegranate,
a shade that dances between ripeness and fire,
but every mixture of oil and pigment
falls flat, dull, lifeless.
He experiments, obsessively,
hours into nights,
days folding into each other.
Nothing achieves the hue he dreams.
Nothing breathes.
Then, in a sudden, terrible clarity,
he understands:
his perfect crimson pomegranate
requires human blood.
A chill spreads through him.
The formula whispers its demand.
Will he let obsession claim him?
Will he paint the color at the cost of life?
The canvas waits, unjudging,
but the choice…
the choice is his alone.
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