Gleaming silver glided across the softly pigmented,
Impressionable surface,
Leaving an aperture not unlike the opening of a blossoming flower.
A deluge of blush burgundy left in its wake.

The aromatically ambrosial artist
Peregrinated down the faintly lit back alleys,
The cobbled road was grimy and dirty.
He serenaded the cootie John and Jane Q. Taxpayers
With his beautiful music:
An orchestra of terror.

He swung through the air,
His arm an arch of malevolent motion,
The blade a gleam of finely tuned,
Man-controlled
Lightning.

Fragranced chrysanthemum petals fall in his wake.

This hand held world destroyer,
To some a tool,
To some a weapon,
But to him it was a
Paintbrush.

Though this was no ordinary paint brush,
It limited the Artist
To painting only beautiful,
Delicate
Roses.

The artist glided his paintbrush through the air,
He moved it,
He stabbed it,
Creating a water work painting of a breath taking field.

Honeysuckles discarded as weeds.

Sometimes he made them pretty,
Sometimes he didn’t.
But always,
He made them a work of art.

A single iris left
By the rapidly applauding audience inside his head.

Painting her a Glasgow smile,
Sliding the knife in her mouth,
The terror in her eyes,
The pleading when he made the stroke of his
Tool.

For him he made a decorative statement.
A splash of his knife into the sternum,
Roses erupt.
He pulled swiftly down.
Letting everything
S
p
i
l
l

The rose petals flow.

She had the most gorgeous eyes,
Simply breathtaking opalescent pools of silver.
He wanted the whole world to see them,
So he removed the
Lids.

He left hibiscuses placed in a wreath around her neck.

The belladonna blooms,
Forget me not.