You mistook me for paint,
So you wished to be the artist.
Making a painting perfect out of it
But I bled past your boundaries
I was the ink..
Now staining your hands.
Do you ever
wonder about it
every now and then,
As your brush strokes past your vision,
Over another canvas.
Even with your artistic incision,
A scarlet stain remained.
The one you hoped to be
A prettier shade of red.
And I know you tried to
Scrub the stain away
With the promises of a bright future
With the girl who knew
she was the prey
But went on with it anyway
And I know you tried
to wash your hands,
With the blood of all the witnesses
to my painting, destined to disband.
I should've seen it coming,
How the canvas once a red rose
Would be of an animal running.
With marks on your neck of her claws.
Because between your love and hate,
A tranquilizer she instinctively chose.
As you stood in front of her,
With your open arms & brush in wait.
You are an artist
So you sculpted a future
But the shadows of your past
remained splattered in
The Shades Of An Accuser.
Among the paint you recast.
_______________________
-R
YOU ARE READING
Sucking The Shades From The Shadows
PoetryA poetry collection filled with short poems. -Official description will be written after completion- Poetry.. It might be the language of the dead filled with the lively words of the beauty it exhibited during its time. Might be like a woeful ballad...
