Sliver pens,
Dancing like figures,
Or shadows,
In the dim light of a sunset,
Coursing across his skin,
He muttered cursed words,
Under his breath,
As a dragons roar,
Soft,
Yet cold,
Like Winter's night,
Or a cool breeze,
Blowing leaves from the trees,
Onto the ground,
The silver pens,
Soon turn red,
As the paint,
As called blood,
Flowed from his canvas,
His wrist,
The burning sensation,
The feeling,
Of being dead