Bloody Virtuosity

You could not decide to see

Your hand rested on roughened stone

Shaped to seem polished and clean

But you know that they cared little

In the end, for appearances

As the grass parts for your tired knees

And as the stone gives and caves in--

There is red on the ground

And red on your hands

There is red in their hair and on their plans

They move no more

As portraits should

They shine so bright and lie so still

Should someone interrupt their silent peace then,

Perhaps it will cease to be

And what a tragedy that would be

So you fear it

But it appears others agree, as a yellow frame surrounds it

You tire of red

But red is all you have

So you sink your paintbrush to the hilt again.

There was a man the other day

He tried to lift your art away

And the stone, it trembled desirously

But fulfilling it would lead to sinuous things

So you stopped that man, and he locked you away

As if they could ever lock your heart in here!

No, forever it lays

With your greatest piece

Your artistic feat

Your golden fleece

So you sink your hands into the rock

It gives, crumbles, and there you fall

Locked inside steel and locked inside stone

A grave--the result of an aesthetic woe