I sit and stare at, an empty canvas,
No new pictures, painted with care...
The paint has dried; the brushes are of no use,
At this blank canvas, I stare...
Are you here to help me?
To paint this picture, for us...
Red...let's paint it red...
You take my hand, and with you, I trust.
A cry of pain - of ecstacy...
As our red paint, flows free, from me.
Upon my finger - a small wound...
We'll draw it out, carefully...
Hold my hand, guide it along,
This picture will be quite, pretty...
Oh no...we're not yet done,
This'll be the best we've created, I guarantee.
What is this, that you are making?
...I don't understand.
You sketch the outlines of something unfamiliar,
With the control of my blood-stained hand...
You gently let free this hand of mine,
You sullenly walk away, I stand back in wonder...
...Upon the Bleeding Canvas lays,
A broken heart...a forgotten lover...

 
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