A dark void appears from the lengths
Of my sight: An uncommon sight,
both to man
And to the dead. Death.
And from, a frightened pair of
gleaming eyes
Lies affixed on my bloody hands, horrified;
Her
scythe clutched, twined with her fingers
While my delicate tools loosen
free from mine.
Then I take a step back, another, and another,
So she could check what
soul she could salvage
From my beautiful art of blood, meat and
bones
To see if she could best my artwork with her
Expertise; yet
I see her hands twitch and tremble
Still in fear and agitation. I'm
Surprised.
I then think of moments earlier, as I was carving
Into the body of my
friend, remaking, repainting
The works of God inside with my scalpel.
Euphoric.
Even then I knew who was lurking outside my
Peripheral;
She was too pure a void to miss.
Now, she stands up and looks to her side as if
My model is with her...
My own artwork.
She pauses, then tears stream from her eyes
Into
the darkness of the cloak
And then she bursts into tears. Sad. Angry.
Afraid.
And I?
I smile.
I laugh.