Out of Ammunition
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Muscles contort as the hunched figure twists in the face of design,
Overgrown, dirty finger nails reveal his unending artistic mind.
Modest shoes rely on the floor for support as his inhuman angle prevails,
Pale despite the dim halogen glow of his studio's electronic tale.
Dandruff cuts through the humid atmosphere taking orbit around his body,
Solemnly greeting shadow as they embrace the dark concrete's passivity.
A faint white line encircling his stature's fluid posture of pain,
A premonition of the approaching criminal examination's inane plane.
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Tilting his cranium his eyes roll down the slope as the ocular juice adjusts,
Panning out from the worms eye view the poloroid pictures seep from the dust.
Meeting momentary seconds of paralysis his body forms the letter S,
A mess of organs and limbs his face cracks a smile of address...
A fly landing on his steady hand releases an idea into his bloodstream,
Downloading the binary into the machine a concept manifests amongst the dream.
Immediately moving his brush slicks across the rough canvas target,
A rudimentary object ready for input, nothing more than a carpet.
A self-portrait depicts his excited face as he picks up his pace,
His brush leaving mere remnants of creation he grasps for more crates.
Claws digging into the paint cans colours spray adding to the piece,
Maniacly laughing at his wanton use of mediums he looks for more to lease.
Out of Ammunition and having so much more to express he screams in anger,
His studio's sign twirls in his wake from 'Welcome' to 'Danger'.
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Passing erratically past his steel shelfs of empty products he slashes,
Blood spraying from his wrist adds to his painting as an idea flashes.
Ripping his limbs from their sockets and grinding across the close objects,
Leaving himself in his own self portrait he truly becomes one with his sect.
No one to interject his energy floods the floor and his work area,
Rivers flow steadily from their source through the dark welcoming maleria.
His own world postulated as he hallucinates from the splitting pain,
Carrying 'insane' across the floor and into the corner growing sane.
An odd turn of events one might argue as the neighbours hear his cries,
Opening the door greeted by a twitching corpse coated with flies.
An insatiable desire evoked his untimely demise despite his need for life,
Gave all he had to make something for him to admire to prevail above the strife.
Forever preserved in his own painting his DNA lives on in a reincarnation,
The reanimation of his life's information apparent in his creation...
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For he was Out of Ammunition in his attack on his own being,
Defying the all-seeing he has become little more than the all-dreaming...
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