The Martyr

The Martyr

I bled into the pigment,

my bones crushed to color.

Red is the staple.  Click. 

My body is dispatched ,

shed like a suit,
and soul thrown aside.

For some artist, I have died,
for his soul
and his body.
His spirit's free, immortally, substantially,
within his work.
at least as long as I am trapped,
trapped inside the paint.

There is a secret amongst the painted,
a secret of release,
we can break through our cage,
but despite what I know,
I will not break out of the ink.
I will not trade my spirit's life for his spirit's death.