The Portrait Burns
He dies in colors, soft streaks of agony.
A brush drips red, his pulse fading pale.
Canvas glares like a silent judge,
edges frayed, stretched to rupture.
Every breath, a bruised whisper of creation.
Turpentine ghosts choke the air.
He is both weapon and wound,
hands trembling on poisoned timber.
Each stroke bleeds away his hours,
pigments crushed under frantic weight.
Living kills him slowly: waking, eating,
pinned beneath the weight of vision.
His palette reeks of ruin, marrow-deep gray.
The easel leans, a crooked crucifix.
Shadows coil beneath his feet, rooting him.
Paint wars with him; the war is his own.
Art consumes, art devours, he lets it.
Sacrifice shows teeth, most dire.
He falls, into his masterpiece burning.
Ash scatters hues, he becomes his release.
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