Pale skin
as black as the pupils staring,
─abyssal waters reflecting the space─
infected by dark blood infused
with a silver needle.

Was the canvas blank in its genesis,
for The Painter to leave imprints,
the fertile land now shrinks
as grows the shadow.

Though, distinct are the beauties,
and in the homogenous mass
of interwoven living forms
each of them outshines the rest
─with its darkness─
when the eye halts,
when the focus is trapped;
trapped and submerged in the story.

At length, of life
the host is corpse.
The drawing is complete,
no spaces to fill,
and the useless body
occupies its place in the cemetery.