Existing on a higher plane,

He thought of death in his sleep.

Feeling each canvas like his own sweet lover. Nothing was stronger than the sensation of her

Thinking of the follies of life he painted,

rough whiteness under his brush.

Looking into men’s souls,

He laughed at them and called them fools. What talent did they have?

Looking into their eyes he read their minds, seeking some light of intelligence as he tried to bring

himself to their level.

They never saw the world like he did. There was no light in their iris, merely a black glaze of

But neither friendship nor love did he find in them.

idiocy, unknowing of the future and the ancient past.

Choking on his tears he cried every night,

dreaming of real love beyond his easel. The world was his kaleidoscope with patterns aplenty

that danced before his senses. The delicacy of the vermillion sunset, the granite gargoyles in the

ancient church, the courtesan’s nude marble breasts, the womanly pink lips of a rose…the pearl

chains around the lady’s neck, the tempting redness of the sinful apple, the shiny segments on a

serpent’s body, the athlete’s carved and sinewy muscles. He could paint the world, he could be

the Creator! A new universe would begin from his brush, and he was joyous, each moment

All was alive and the beauty blinded him…all was alive and beauty blinded him…still he

orgasmic and riveting.

worked, still he sweated…all was alive…and beauty blinded him…

But all was a cliché, seen by many and done by more. Where was the true light, the one he

sought in his art? Where was the Eye of God, the True Creator in the brushstrokes he laid on his

canvas? Would he ever see the birth of the universe, the ending apocalypse, the start of life, the

fall of man? Would his wretched mortality allow for more uniqueness? Tirelessly he sought out

finer sights, bleeding night and day onto his canvas. Sleep deserted his soul and he was a pallid

specter at last. He dragged his brushes like chains behind him, scraping against the floorboards

The universe whipped him, bleeding a technicolor nightmare onto his canvas.

He had no salvation from his own beautiful torture nor could he shake off the shackles that

of a cobwebbed house.

bound him there.

Another creator was dead at last and the world would be all the poorer for it.

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