The Stroke

The muse sits
Eyes glazed and frosted
Sheets of snow across his cloak

The brush is still
Dead to the touch
Paused between soul and stroke

The scars that burn
adorn his face
red lips that crack and bleed

Clothed but bare
The muse lays dieing
unable to place lips to breath

He wishes for beauty
But holds imperfection
The painter's un-shaking rest

The parenting is gone
It's master asleep
But the paints keep going bad.