Malerin (the painter) ~ Poem

In cellar damp and gray,

Oil hath met flesh, dark and cold,

I the artist, in twisted trade,

Brush in my hand, against canvas played. 

In tallow candle flame shadows sway,

Across dank walls of rot and decay,

The leather stretched as canvas, 

Living to dead, and becomes as life again. 

No lazy paint in palettes lie,

Stains of tears, long faded cries,

Leached from veins with care,

Distilled from life, erased from light and day. 

A whimper, a beg, a pleading glance,

Final breaths, my grand romance,

No guilt, nor selfish pride,

Nay reverence, for the sacrifice. 

Return their cheeks to rose,

And eyes alive, mouths agape,

To accuse, but painted lips can tell no tales,

Trapped forever in the menagerie of my walls.

I have mixed their sorrow into red,

And death to vibrant blue,

Tints of fear to yellow and green,

To paint the faces, only I have truly seen. 

The strangers come to learn my genius,

And I show it to them well,

This cold brick cellar, and the blade,

And then there is no more to tell. 

No law nor justice seeks my name,

But the impotent eyes of judgment,

Behind glass and mat and frame,

In each brushstroke a soul forever stained. 

Now in my gallery, the glorious array,

I sit content and ponder,

And it occurs finally to me,

Perhaps there is no shame, in vanity.