Ode to the Illustrator's Brush stroke
A carved heart bleeds her demons into stone
The canvas speaks as a mirror
All her lusts quench the fear
With each tail end of a swipe and
of a bristle
She paves the path to heaven for the rest
Out of her own life's true story
Ink muddles
Tears drip as well, off the pen
For the world to understand a new sort of style
When in hope's dialogue, one cannot depend
And the stains run deep
Long past, in part, the purity of the old canvas sheet.
Her own sacrifice upon the stake
It was those brush strokes dipped through hell
That painted paradise to keep
A true artist's touch
To show a reality the world had only dreamed
Ode to the Illustrator's Brush stroke...
A strike of a sword that goes past the surface deep
Into all the illusive world one could have known
Into all of the universe of what "could be."
©palewriter
P