The artist

To appreciate the art, the artist must die.
To guide the gentle tip of the brush to elongate his tragic story, the paint must cry.
This allows the pain to dry for like the drizzling heat that melts his flesh, causing his heart to testify. Reminiscent of the creeping fly that  knots the subtle sound to the craving notes.
Boasting majestic grandeur which illuminates the opera singer's reverberating throat.
The whispering healer entraps the circling colours of his haunted mind.
The hour of elegance bleeds dry and bursts; hugging the rainbow's melancholic radiance.
The luminance of the artist's petrified heart flusters his wavering eyes, cutting deep into the veins of visceral vision.
Phrases once mentioned twist his outstretched tongue, depriving each contrived breath. He attempts to unlace his fatal flaws but destiny's bitter anger pours and drowns his crown.
The spoils of his blank canvas seep deep into his wretched soul thus he becomes a foil of the faithful receiver he once was.
Each strand of reality and logic grips his flaming hands, smokeless caricature mock his fading hours. The wind vows to become his mortal fiend by propelling malicious animations that rupture his concrete figure.
The artist screams but the echoes beam into an endless abyss.
His resting hours are plagued by torments of his once faithful dreams.
Now the artist schemes and flees the contraptions of his inconsiderate ambitions.
Rendering his fortunes bare.