The Painting of You and I

By , Central, SC
The artist wields his brush,
As if it were a sword of reckoning,
Poised to carve out our souls,
Like Caravaggio’s fruits of labor,
Not meant for you and I.
The oil paint,
Will only burn our hands,
With colours, that
Never were ours.

Will we be beautiful?
The epitome of love,
Or only dying flowers,
Lonely and forgotten.
Stand a little bit closer,
The artist will soon leave.

A fleeting existence,
That will last only,
For a moment or two,
But let the image burn,
In the back of your glass eyes,
Never forget the painting,
Of what was our last dream.

The colours will drip,
Like blood down to Hell,
Dissolving at out feet.
Let the paint melt away,
It will only curse us,
You could never quite fit,
In the painting of you and I.

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