“Artist” by Danielle Piper Bloom
The red is darker than I’d ever want it to be.
I see it, touch it, tell myself it burns not for me.
Ice, ice bays at the mind I once knew well, controlled by the fire that plays me;
Brazen, carbon, unafraid of me.
There is no punishment as rash, as ill-advised as this, for not once
I Participated in demonic nails. Such rituals are not for art or me,
Though the painter sees the reflect in his speckled palette for the
Accusation whch he gave in me, made of ice yet fiery.
No wrongs commit by those known in love of life
Like me, the mother of all artful throes.
I stay indignity; An architect with no safe-well walls, an artist with no art to live,
So I die. Or do I?
The red is turned to blue now, a shade that I prefer.
Still I am not ready, so I take a tight wire-head, one that finds four years or more.
The fire turns my feet black; nothing feels.
Naught to see in me, for eyes will have to pry by the sculptor’s chisel.
I am made of stone now- I traded my soul for death’s delay.
It is bone, bone amidst all colorful heirs.
For stone and bone create in meA monster-suicidal palette of cold and wetting grey;
I am covered.
I am no longer the artist. For now I am the art.
Causes Danielle Bloom Supports
Friends of Humanex Academy Fund
(The High school that saved my life)!