Friday, 24 July 2009


Witness her poisoned canvas destroy the artist's soul.

He saw in her a flame, that dared to dance to the beat of his.

To his easel he took her and told her tonight, on this night he would paint her.
That night she fell for the painter,
An artisan through and through,
But he could not paint.

Possessed by an elixir, his heart trembled like a flower in the rain.
His instruments became foreign, his colours a language he could not comprehend.

Witness her evil, her greatest work yet. As he seduced her with words he could not say, there she lay, content.
The painter is now hers. His soul that used to burn so bright, a flame that danced to the beat of the wind, is hers. A guilty pleasure she must let be.

Now, witness her sew back together his dreams and let him live, as she walks away.

The poison drained from his heart. No longer obsessed by that torturous opium, he is free to dance once again.

Witness her now, she she stands small, fragile and alone, as she watches the painter paint.

1 comment:

  1. Muses are more effective in their absence than in their presence. Pygmalion didn't do any work of note after Aphrodite granted life to Galatea.

    I wonder if love is worth all the art it destroys, or art worth all the love it destroys...