An Artist’s ode to past glory

No more life to live.

Knotted fingers splayed across white paper
Mosaic creased skin, green veins throb through
She cracked her knuckles against the steely table
Barely breathing whilst she drew.

She paused, fingertips pressed against scrawny wrist
Her pulse still felt strong, steady and slow
She sighed, stretched out, observed her hands
Once smooth and beautiful, now tremulous, old

Starchy white paper beneath powdery black charcoal
There is beauty sometimes, in simple stark contrast
But look closely n study, a trained eye will know
No detail was worthy, no impression would last

There was a time when the lady saw glory
Her touch could put Midas to shame
Each easel, each one held a wonderful story
But in time there was no story to share

Her work, last few, stacked in a corner
It had been months since she had seen the light
Forehead creased, she tried to stop the tremor
No avail, no matter how hard she tried

She sighed once more, at the corner she gazed
There were going to be no more glorious days
She looked around at the wooden walls she built
It was time, maybe time to see the light again

The stroke of the matchstick, the smell of burnt ash
It burnt through canvas, the corner was a flame
Eyes closed, leaned back, the walls now orange
Smiled softly, she would see the light again.

Thanks for reading Writers Guild — A Penname publication

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