He was like an old worn book with a
The threads that bound him;
In search of a place to shelve his
he cloaked himself in his painting.
He wore it like a vibrant shadow.
Brushing familiar oils,
he stroked at lingering grief.
With pastel hues
he canvassed the tear that bore him.
Fusing the final touches of rich, creamy oils,
he unleashed her cameo smile
filling his palate;
breaking his spine.