The painter and the painting.

Grim and deceitful, put paint all across her,
She stood with a palette and a line drawn to cross her.
A hint of crimson, in the shivers, of the pallid faces.
Pale and yet, so dislocated tons of bricks and aces.


Glided down the hall of saints, where death is merely humor.
She may have stood in that paint, if she wondered sooner.
Only looking only waiting for the changing time.
Sadly, she doesn't know, she's in the painters mind.


I'm not even in the picture, just across the side.
Whisper to me of the window and the shadow skies.
Rush of blood like cocaine flows, 
Receiving all your happy jolts. 


I missed a spot, or did I not?
Freeing myself, with little thought. 
And she painted with all her might,
The canvas gave way, with little fight.