He created it free hand with a shackled mind and misplaced the key in a pocket he never did like reaching into. Creating a decadent falsity as it kidnapped the truth to a place begging too high a ransom. He only painted with his heart, something he had been perfecting his entire life. Drawing blood to draw with blood left him light in the head and weak in the knees though he kept painting on the canvas, and with passion and ache paint till his palette became parched. A masterpiece he would say while others saw naught but a blank canvas no matter how hard he tried making them fall in love. Though something was missing, something had always been missing but what? He lost himself days on end working to make the beauty in his mind a reality. The days turned into months while the months turned into seconds.  He was pulled to the dangerous place he had always pushed away, squeezing the very last drop his heart could bare until the heart itself became bare, ceasing to move. Before he could make the final stroke he fell weak onto the frosty floor, laying in the shadow of the canvas. With tired eyes and  a vacant heart he finally understood the missing element to his masterpiece. And with his final breath, the last thing his eyes would ever see in this world was the canvas . . . completely empty as the man he became.