The Death of An Artist

The paint in her blood just evaporated.

Now when she got hurt

Creation did not spring forth

Just standard haemoglobin.

She washed the charcoal

From hands that could no longer draw

And scraped flecks of dried-up colour

From the lenses of half-broken glasses.

The clay she cleaned from under her nails

Went back to the earth as intended

Wool sat in her cupboards

Gathering dust and rarely used

Except to hang the occasional picture

Something cheap and mass produced.

The world had no more room for art

Or people were too busy to look

Except for a single passing glance

Perhaps a blessed medal of red pixels.

So she put down her tools

Her childish fancies

And watched her soul die.

No one heard a thing.