Fresh Canvas

 Painting lotuses into isopods On sleeping bones, 

A demon fiends in the dark mood of his howling. 

He wraps the noose again, applying each knot. 

Re-checking at neck to see his reflection 

While re-sizing his own lunge. 

Tracing his steps at a distance 

On how many he will have to fly over to make the mark. 

A man whose only dream is to die 

Down a road leading left t'wart a river of misery. 

He did not want its army, or to walk its waters 

Thirsting on lone shores. 

Covered in ink: his portrait stood 

Cascading colors of dementia. 

Leering brushes seated beside him 

Swiping away at canvas. 

His voice laughing. 

His paint splashing. 

Her screaming. 

Him stabbing. . .