There are to those, whose face shines among,
Upon ivory canvases.
Though, yours that faces itself,
Upon the stark white shape,
Is there for my smears,
My foiled becoming,
Is for you to breathe,
As your lips remain idle.
It is due to me,
I have painted a scene,
A sight of a face, so texture-less in textures.
No life, I see, among this idleness,
Alike death, frozen, though still shows a tear,
Despite the upholding of my love.
I drew with the screams and sighs,
Of all my life’s failure,
To see, to see movement, and to see
The you who never was,
And never will be, to this broken day.
I am but a shade,
A meaningless man,
Who possesses loneliness,
Like a poisoned blade.
There is death about me,
Though, it only drains from me.
From my hands,
Spills the hopelessness of an empty life.
Though, from your face,
Spills the harrowing colors,
That eclipse me into the unknown.