... About myself-for others

The only Drop

The Only Drop

The painter was watching the beautiful woman,
Unfolding his raggedy easel before him.
From his collection, he takes worn-out brushes,
To place a clean canvas on the frame, he rushes.
He wanted to beat his contemporaries out,
And create a masterpiece for which there’s no doubt.
For the perfect picture, everything was given,
Bringing him life, towards which he has striven.
The subject of desire was now fully naked,
As she laid on the couch, silent and sated.

He took his palette into his hands,
Pouring magenta and cyan as planned.
From another tube, he added some cinnabar,
(October’s sad colors were his favorites by far.)
Ebony-black and light blue came next,
He added a small touch of moon-white for the rest.
Then came a droplet of ochre and dark brown;
Mixing terracotta from the colors around.
This was finally the day, luck was on his side.
He looked at the girl and smiled satisfied.

Out walking the town, is when he first saw her:
The muse of his dreams, a true woman, an honor.
This wonderful creature, with pale skin of white,
Early autumn colors shining her face in the light.
Hair dark as the evening, free as a wind’s gust,
Cascading a waterfall on her Rubenesque bust.
Her light blue eyes glimmering, so blinding a sight,
Making a thousand men wish they’d be spending the night.
She is irresistible, her mouth begs to be kissed,
Believe me, it hurts watching her blood-red lips.

A small, little dimple graces her elegant chin,
Freckles on her shoulders, where she’s showing skin.
Her petite, supple waist, like a small stock of reed,
Her dress clinging tightly to her rump underneath.
The posture of a queen, a proud look on her face,
She looked at the painter, and coyly she waved.
With a flirty wink, she threw him a laugh…
He fell in love there, and then that was that!
Jealous looks followed them all the way home,
To the nude art-filled tiny apartment he owned.

He wanted the model, so he stood before her.
Tearing her clothes off with no wait for an order.
Passionately placing many heated kisses,
He locked the door quietly and got back to business.
He psyched himself up, he was ready to have her,
Desire fully removing his mind from the matter.
Her perfect body inspired him so,
He decided he must paint the angel below.
To capture her perfection forever and ever,
And leave behind this pure depiction of pleasure.

He laid her down on the sofa, caressing her skin,
Feeling her tremble from underneath him.
Gently, he held the girl by the waist,
Who, with a sigh, allowed to be chased.
Moving his hands further and further up,
Caressing her breasts with a gentle touch.
He felt her shake from under his fingers,
While dragging them upwards, inducing shivers.
He moved a small lock of her hair to the side,
Grabbing her fragile neck with a sigh.

He could no longer sense time or space as real,
The rushing of blood in his palms, he could feel.
His fingers took on a life of their own.
His mind, full of voices, strange and unknown.
He thinks he heard some kind of thud in the distance,
Akin to a small crack, an inaudible instance.
The woman was fighting to catch her breath,
You could see in her eyes that there was no success.
She fought all she could, then finally gave up,
She twitched a last time and ran out of luck.

Coming back to, the painter felt nothing,
Except for an artist’s satisfaction or something.
He adjusted the body of the girl on the couch,
And positioned her perfectly for the piece he’d mapped out.
Her wide-open eyes, he gently closed shut,
Placed her head on a pillow of snow-white and fluff.
There lay before him, his object of desire,
Breathing a kiss on the blood-red lips he admired.
It’s as if she’s sleeping. She was so beautiful!
You could hardly even notice the bruises on her throat.

The painter once again approached his station,
Taking in the view with artistic appreciation.
Of course, the empty canvas is yet to be filled,
It lays ahead bare, like the lady he killed.
He got to work quickly, painting the colors,
Mixing brown, ochre, white, and some others.
He wanted the walls to represent fall,
The gloomy mix, a perfect foundation after all.
He painted a thick coat of blue for the couch,
Discovering lost desire in the contrast he found.

Gently, he’s adding a few final strokes…
Of glimmering black hair, which falls and it floats.
Carefully drawing her lovely silhouette,
Painting her magical body white as he went.
He watched every move, the man was precise,
Especially in the way he drew her closed eyes.
The line of her nose, he fixed a little;
(The shadow was too big, just left of the middle.)
A migraine approaching, his head was hurting,
But he didn’t care. He just kept on working.

He put the palette down and took a step back,
Carefully observing his portrait, his craft.
He was proud of himself, of the master and artist,
He didn’t know what, but something’s still amiss!
Her naked body, he watched for a while,
Which in white and moonlight, he chose to style.
Her angelic face and her closed eyelids,
Her petite nose… He laughed as he got it!
Ahha! I found it! Those blood-red lips!
That is the crux of a painting like this!

Without that aspect, the whole thing is useless,
He happily reached for a new brush to prove this!
He discarded a dull red paint from the set,
(It’s not dark enough, not what he wants yet!)
He searched all over to find the right color,
The one that he saw on her lips, and no other.
Burgundy, carmine, velvet, or maroon,
Dew-kissed cherry, or bright Tiziano, he knew.
A very important, tiny, and small detail,
But there’s no right color, his collection’s a fail.

The world spun around him, he started to panic.
The space now closing in which once felt gigantic.
Time seemed to slow, a new voice was calling,
Whispering quietly: “You failed, It’s appalling!
A talentless, average, worthless, nobody.
Whom the world watches fail gleefully.
If one measly color is enough for a breakdown,
You’re not a painter, just a poser from fake-town.
The answer would be so easy to find,
Just look around, and you’ll seek it…inside!

He sat there, and he stared at her ruby lips,
Not even noticing the drool she emits.
Listening to the voice that spoke in his head,
But how could he? When terrible things were being said!
The piece will only gain a true purpose,
If you leave emotions out of the surface.
The creature just screamed and hollered inside,
She’s just an object, and she is just mine!
I am the greatest artist in all eternity,
And I’ll do as I please, with her body!

A glint of madness lit up his eyes,
The tools to create were right by his side.
The painting is what matters, not the act,
So he went to take a new brush from the pack.
Reaching into his pocket, he took out a knife,
And started carving the end, just how he’d like.
The tip of the brush now as sharp as it gets,
He recreated the Holy Lance of death.
He slowly stood up and stepped to his muse,
The incomplete piece would be finished soon.

He knelt by her side, close to the couch.
As close as he could and leaned over her mouth.
He breathed a small kiss on her ice-cold lips.
(He hoped it’d be better…reciprocated.)
His eyes glanced over the blue-purple patch,
On her throat forever, how sad is that!
He searched her neck for the perfect spot,
And nicked a small hole with the brush he brought.
He turned the brush over and pushed it inside,
So the blood got soaked up by the bristly side.

He moved it around a few times within,
As if she’s no more than a palette of skin.
Pulling the thin brush out of the hole,
The blessed color there: Like a drop of gold.
How fragile and small, is life itself,
Yet it breathes spirit into the piece on the shelf.
He would have stood and stared for a while,
A voice popped in his head, and it made him smile.
Hurry up, boy! Your time is almost done!
The blood will dry quickly, and then you’ll have none!

He went to the canvas, but not in a rush,
In front of his body was the bloody brush.
He glanced at the girl from behind the painting,
And placed the drop slowly on the canvas, awaiting.
He watched as it dripped and flowed down in awe.
He felt joy inside, in a place deep and raw.
On the picture, the blood-red spot smoldered on.
Just like the lips of the woman he’d drawn!
Though he will live with a terrible crime,
He finished his masterpiece, and it was divine!

The painting, a beauty, a sight like no other!
He was a master, (No question, no wonder!)
Though there were a few dark splotches on her skin,
The model was breathtaking, without question.
He covered her throat and the scar with a hankie,
And packed his painting palette up gently.
He slowly folded the easel he used,
And watched for a while, his pretty, dead muse.
He was satisfied, happy, and over-the-top,
The name of the painting was: The Only Drop.

Translated by Esther Brownwood.2024.01.22



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