A man sitting forlorn looking to the sky,
why won't they recognise me?
why, why, why?
His insanity slipping like a hazy summers day.
A painter without the inspiration ,
shrouded in dismay.
The colours on the canvas reflect the brightness in his eyes
as he goes back to that moment on a starry starry night.
Colours are swirling across a sky of blue,
Are they looking?
They will be soon.
A brush in one hand a knife in the other,
Its an ultimatum,
One or the other.
He lowers the brush and raises the knife,
deciding maybe a shade of crimson is nice,
he bites his lip swallowing his fear
Swiftly slashing down his ear.
The years go past since that fateful day,
The forsaken painters sanity has trickled away,
His canvas of hope, dreams and colour
collect gathering dust under their cover.
The ultimatum again,
the brush or knife
He lowers the brush,
ending his life.