Chapter 6: Fine Art

No colours in my palette today, nothing tonight,
Because only colour is for the good,
And so, I know; I should

I master movements of art,
Every single masterpiece, splattered apart,
Some I’ve made, some I’ve stolen
Until paints bled from the canvases.

I see mediums and shades,
Some dark, some as bright as my blade,
Some charred,  some neutral
A threshold of a scoundrel

Paint drips and sinks into my skin, my veins,
The reminder of the canvas stains,
I must forget those wretched ones,
I must let it dry before it’s gone.

My exhibition, I say
These pieces took me several years, a couple of days
I contrived large pieces of works, some small,
Some wide, some tall
Regardless, you seem to seem to be in awe,
Do you like what you see? That’s what I thought.

No, I can’t shake your hand, my friend
For my hands are not in the best trend,
Covered in paint – yes, indeed
Nothing else, not that I don’t need.

This piece is not for sale, my gentlelady,
Perhaps, maybe
A bargain? No, this is not what you’re looking for,
But over there, past that door
You’ll find something you’ll like.

I’ll accompany you,
I may even paint something new
While we’re together.

See this piece? Remember what you see,
It’s convoluted – oh this? I paint with a knife,
Shh, don’t speak, my sweet.


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