Some say he'd gone mad in early May
pacing weary torturous nights
in his white shirt sleeves rolled up
stained with days of sweat and paint
lusting for the perfect woman in his mind
she called him
to the blank canvas's throb
to his paints and blunt mixing knife
he dipped his brush in crimson red
and first painted a pulse
that could only beat for his crazed eyes
the gold in her hair blazed on his canvas
dim light caught the twinkle in her blue eyes
he painted her luscious lips with his bourbon drenched mouth
his brush stroked her curves to fit perfectly in his arms
trill of her laughter on his Gitanes yellowed fingertips
he brushed her spirit in colors of spring
some say dawn squeezed its light through rain washed panes
crept on the floor as a pale moon lingered in May sky
it cast a transparent linen on his broken body
his paint brush dug deep in his heart
it found foot prints in his colors on the ground
of a perfect woman gone feral outside his mind
a blank canvas torn to shreds
Silva Zanoyan Merjanian
May 4, 2013
