Her brush a raging cyclone on a canvas
Swaying by the veins and passing by the cracks.
Her scars distorted, painted grey in atlas
As it screams in agony and screeching black.
Her brush dissolved the pain but not the darkness
Trauma wreaths upon her neck in fallacy
Repainting it with white to hide the malice
River flowing paint contorts with tragedy.
And as it dries, her saturation can be seen
persistently perceived in poisoned preen
And as her weeping trickled down her reveries
Her eyes will dim in damp without an energy.

