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.
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.