Each brushstroke is a jumble of love, sorrow and rage.
His eyes are fixed on the sole thing that keeps him sane.
He strikes the canvas as his mind and heart burst into flames.
He hears the howling wind as blood slides down his face.
He knows that nothing will be the same.
He knows that the curse he bears will never be erased.
The voices inside his head make him cower in shame.
The crows above the wheat field watch him staggering towards his inevitable fate.
He smiles at his brother, concealing the throbbing pain.
He stares at the starry sky, wondering if the sadness will ever fade away.