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THE ALLEYNIAN 710
Artwork – Henry Yang (Year 10)
Post-Mortem Calum Skinner (Year 10) The brush skirts the canvas white, Inhale. Exhale. And it glides across, swift and light, The sun dips low and so breaks night, And still she paints her eyes. The easel wobbles on her arm, Inhale. Exhale. And dips then steadies, deadly calm, Across the house screams an alarm, But still she paints her hands. The palette glows a cherry red, Inhale. Exhale. The wet paint drips, colour bled, Delicate as an angel’s tread, She paints her lover’s eyes.
Silken threads like liquid gold, Inhale. Exhale. Swirling, blossoming, odes untold, No faucet to clean with water cold The mess, as she paints her hair.
She pauses. Steps back. Inhale. Exhale. Her lover’s eyes are not night black! Nor her hair rigid flaxen – it is gold and slack; The hands and lips: so wrong!
She weeps, head heavy as lead, Sob. Choke.
The easel drops with naught but dread, She cannot paint her lover, now dead, For grief does not make an artist.
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