Left helpless like a contorted corpse, it's grave tilled by falling leaves
Never meant to be alone with a contrivance with lost capacity to grieve
A painful portait i must conceive:
Brush stokes in flesh, pink, black and pain; obscene...
Pigments touched jagged to finish with acetelyne
An immolation of creation is but one true creation
When the pastel clouded brilliance give endless aspirations
Yet we feel the Earth, and kiss the dirt
Holding so hard that we don't fall away...