Friday, 15 February 2013


Blood was bitter in his mouth
Ran across his hands like oil on water.
His heart hammered a macabre crescendo;
Ragged breath like a rattling drum.
It was almost laughter.
Not quite.

His soul - a dying star - deserved to laugh.
It had wept, lamenting his long-dead conscience.
Unable to escape the pull of his black and empty heart.
Forced to watch him wreak horror for his own cold amusement,
Growing dim behind the windows of an artist’s eyes;
All glimmer of humanity slowly fading.
Lost behind tears of blood.

His vacant heart faltered,
Drumming the last moments of a pointless life.
He fell to his knees in the ghastly remains:
More beautiful now than ever in life.
 Her name had been Linda.
 His scarlet flower -
His final work

A masterpiece he had etched with dispassionate love.
They would remember this day
And remember her name:
His Valentine.
His lover.

His Linda

He smiled.
Could smell her precious sweet blood,
The beautiful scent of her last gasping breath.
Recall still the taste of her tears on his tongue;
See her eyes:

Her cry…
A distant memory.
The warmth of her flesh long gone.
His own blood spread like the petals of a rose;
Blue lights flashed on the surface of his eyes.
He drew a final long breath:


His life at last had meaning.
Etched of horror and painful desire.
Of tears.


But the scars he etched,
Like the art he drew from the well of his heart,
Testimony to love,
Lived on.