Virtuoso, Grieving

Her subtle hands that pursue night and day
with endless strokes that fill up an entire space
reflect an ardent and a blazing disposition,
yet remark an idiosyncrasy, obscured and surreptitious.
She shrieks deafening and perpetual silence
from her muddy hazel eyes that subtly tell stories.
Her ravishing eyes that constantly hide behind the lens
have no longer broken the chains of the abyss.
A corpus of haunting frescoes mirrors her benevolence,
mistaken personas of her creations she tries to relieve
as every stroke of fresh pigment, she strives to elicit
every throe and predicament she cowardly faced.
There’s no better way to overlook one’s own life
than scads of acrylic occluding the entire cellarage
that will soon fill up a ginormous, empty canvas
but never one’s unseemly blotted fate.
Colorfully stained bristles and a smeared ferrule
that fondle over the ever-deserted void
gingerly create an extremely aesthetic image
that speaks of her scarred and distressed soul.
A rendered depiction of the artist’s lifelong vision
begets a touch of sorrow that tinged her ego.
The painting will ever be known for its artist
who, in an entire lifetime, hid behind delicate brushes
Echoing with an overly painful and afflictive voice
saying, “that could’ve been me millions of years ago.”

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