She was a tortured artist.
Her muse had left her with nothing to inspire beauty.
Her easle stood empty in the centre of the room.
Stalk white and cold.
Her imagination failing her.
With paintbrush in hand, she knew not what to draw.
Looking inside herself, she knew this would be her last.
She picked up her blade, not to sharpen her pencil but to carve into her flesh.
Her blood splattering on the canvas, bringing life while taking her own.
She signed it with a kiss
The last of her, to stand through the ages.
Showing the world that it was not her love at fault, but his inability to stand with her in the storm.
As she lay there lifeless, the raging storm inside subsiding.
Her masterpiece looking down on her
Giving us a glimpse into her battered mind and broken soul..
But the depiction of a never ending love.
Now he would remember her till the day he died.
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