A solemn painted picture stands,
Before the reach of sober hands,
Funereal strokes; grave-tone acrylic,
Woe is he, sought tones idyllic.

What to expect, thought painters mind,
No solace brushed, no hope defined,
No revelry, so reconcile,
Behind the guise of broken smile.

Foreboding canvas, realized him,
‘t would never-ending be life grim,
Fettered anguish, bound by sorrow,
Clatters every waking morrow.

O dreams of bliss that never show!
So wearisome I ever-grow,
These chains, they offer no release,
Should I seek elsewhere means of peace?

An answer forms behind blue eyes,
Draw from life, to grant apprise,
A final coat of crimson hue,
A thousand words to those who view.

His chosen palette, from arms length,
A sanguinary loss of strength,
In crowning strokes, awaited bliss,
An amity in work dismissed.