The Masterpiece

Another restless night led to a bedside scribble fest, which turned into the following poem. Be forewarned, the subject matter is a little dark (okay, it may be blacker than fresh tar).


Blinding was the light
Boiling was the heat
Bubbling was the blood
That seeped from her throat like macabre sea foam
Ebbing and flowing to the tide of her last labored breaths

Transfixed was his gaze
Transcended was his mind
Tantalized was his heartbeat
By the dimming of her eyes as the light left her body
Like a bird taking flight, graceful and beautiful and skyward bound

Brandished was his knife
Bloodied was his blade
Brightened was his spirit
As he painted the desert crimson with her blood
Spraying and spattering the droplets against the colorless expanse

This was not his first masterpiece
Nor would it be his last
For the desert was his freedom, his salvation, his canvas
And the life force of women his medium of choice