His Iniquitous Design

He stares outwards,
One joy in his soulful prison.
The cell contains him,
As liquid trickles downwards.

The clock has stopped.
It's hands frozen,
Quarter past twelve.
Time to begin.

Ruby splashes,
Steady paint on floor.
Opened wrists and arms.
Purple speckled body.

The art keeps coming.
Master's joyful game.
He smells it.
He loves it.

The clock begins again.
But reverse wards,
Its unsteady hands go.
Rewind the painful flow.

The wounds start healing.
Cut upon cut, now scar upon scar.
He steadfastly stares beyond.
Skin turned healthy, tinged pink.

Resolute with guilt.
Events long passed.
Yet occur at any moment.
Atonement, demons cruel game.

Then the clock has stopped.
It's hands frozen.
Quarter past twelve.
Time to begin.

Crimson stains,
Gored, tasteful picture.
Roses longing stare,
Yet red is but colour.

A vile chuckle.
Foul breath reeks the nose.
Master's festive spirit.
It warms his lack of soul.

The clock begins again.
But reverse wards,
Its steady hands go.
Rewind the streams of time.

And he begins to wonder.
Will he ever escape this living death?
Or will art be his name?
Signed as evil's pet.