The Painter

He paints his chilling dream tonight —
Tortured faces full of fright
Clawing their way out alive
From his infernal mess
Of arterial red
And holocaustic black, no less.
Artistic death!
But then — Whoosh!
’Tis sweeping golden over blue.
A change of mind,
A change of hue!
Yet for a while —
For then he layers over this again — his Pain!
Thick and deep acrylic tears.
Weeping crimson, abstract fears.
While drying, dying oh, so fast.
Fixed and varnished till at last,
He hangs — for cruel critique,
His stroke of Death,
So oblique.