Unfinished Portrait II

He sits alone beside his disgraced shadows staring at the pure flame flickering in the dark. Black wax drips down his furrowed skin and solidifies like the icicles that cling to his heart. They sap his soul of his strength. He seeks warmth in the humble and impermanent flame that flickers insignificantly in the darkness.

The Technicolor closet of his dreams lies somewhere in the dark... like a small animal hiding, not daring to breath lest it be discovered. All he has to do is make one last effort. But the unreasonable terror of reality and failure stops him before he can even start.

An unfinished portrait lies in this mortuary. It claws on the living corpse that lies on the rotten mattress surrounded by blood stained blankets. Realitys burden pulls him down through these bottomless inky black waters. He lies in the dark and mutters the broken lyrics of some lost song that sticks to his fading memory refusing to let him go... \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\"Try to avoid tomorrow\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\'s grass because yesterday still burns inside \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\".

This portrait he must finish. Vacillating lies cannot serve as shattered excuses anymore. He paints himself with his own calumniated blood. He paints his own splintered dreams with his deceased screams.

He looks out of the window. A girl silently plays with her brother. Untouched by sin she sees not the monster lurking in the bushes. She sees not the man in his torture chamber. A torturous and sinful past cauterizes the man in the dark room as his tormented soul seeks relief in certification.

He keeps on painting the portrait of the demon he has become. His penance...

A dagger lies buried in the splintered table. It seems to taunt the anguished man. Crimson droplets of blood glistening on this dagger promise an end to it all. The lethal blade gleams coldly in the moonlight...Like the wings of some forsaken fairy godmother that gives you your magic wish. Beautiful inscriptions of hate and death are inscribed on the ivory handle. The man\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\'s left hand edges towards this dagger as he keeps on painting with his right.

He tries to finish this portrait. But his dreams are finally over. His screams all choked out , his blood all dried out. As he finally dies.

The fatigued corpse of an old man lies on the cold hard floor. A cold gleam of death shines somewhere among the inky blood that has spilled all over the insensate floor.

The unfinished portrait remains unfinished as the bloody paints dries slowly in the futility of temptation that overpowers us all.

Amen.