I gazed for days learning the picture dot after dot of ink. What was it which made it both her unforgettable master piece and her unforgivable sin?
Then again whoever said passion would be bloodless! Brooding in the darkness, headless souls searching for an answer, looking for a relief and a saviour. Only those edged lips of her lover is a sign of the repressed emotions. Gone to the dark side, not a gleam of light to flood those headless souls. You feel the tug of the heart. Even as I marvel at her brilliance, my blood runs cold at what it's saying. If you could only look at the dead center of the picture, a pair of sharp scissors, the hard, cold metal that's cut the family ties. I don't know what it is with blades, they once marked her back and now it marked her soul. The first two years of her pain swung widely from mass euphoria to paranoia. Pictures flashes! orgies of public hugging, spasms of vindictive lynching.
Why the anger? I wonder if it was reason of the still hunger. Someone is to blame. Such an odd mix of dogma and uncertainty. Is she a monster! Still I haven't given up on the idea of her as a Queen of royalty. What a pathetic little ingenue, until she met the likes of her, (me) failed lover, artist, dreamer, fanatic. I knew how to play on hysteria like a drum. Yelling with cursed and denounced, ripping off the mask of false patriots whom she once fingered as traitors. "THERE ARE PLOTS EVERYWHERE! Plotters with soulful heads" her days were numbered.
She captured a image meant to for a cult to tell. Its enough that I'm truly unhappy to have the right to her benevolence. My heart is filled with loose feathery strokes of dark indeterminate space. The space of forever.
Even with my mind spellbound, another voice inside my head says, "HOLD ON A MINUTE, this is the purest witchcraft." What she has captured in this image is to glorify a paranoid, whose greatest satisfaction was the persecution of thousands of pure souls whose only crime was to be lukewarm about love!
Why do I love her? Well, I don't. She's a monster. But she makes ideas blaze in dry ice. She is a fantastic plotter, no one better. Other could just as well roll over and die. And what was the point of it all you ask me? Well, its a revenge on wit, on chat and banter. But to me it was more then that. This is a capture designed to make those who saw it virtuous lovers. And its all so perfect, so tragic, so poetic you almost believe her. But like a lot of plotters, always scheme to "improve" humanity! It has the opposite effect. Because its a lie.
