Streaming Ink

Streaming down a porcelain page, ink conforms to the shape.
Sharp edges to rivers..
The black blurs as it descends.

What do you see behind the darkened image?
Can its story be told?
What do you see?
Can she ever be?

Scarlett paint drips down an unclean canvas.
The depth of the image so immense... Just filled with negative bliss.
An instant gratification comes to as you feel this painting deep within you.

So what can you see in the crimson image?
It's scarlet letters... What do they say?
Do they leave you astray?
Or do you just walk away?
So what do you see?
Will she ever be?

The colors collide yet they never touch.. never combine.
A clear coat remains visible with a tear stain color.
The ink floods over a well incrested with a jewel of blue black and hues of solitude orange.
Drenched with a clear coat the flooding well is set with a glare.
It's dripping what the crimson paint doesn't show through.

Red dripping, cascading a solid, scathing model.
It drips to the floor as the artist tears away what she tried to restore.
Her rigid brush clotted by the scarlet she's drenched in.
Her painting is done with a twist...
With features and shades of ink that will forever mix.
Black, Scarlett and shades of solitude...
What can one do to see through to the story the painting for told.
What can she do to restore herself, mend the faulted seams?

So what can you see in the painting she hides?
Is it black ink tears falling from her eyes as she cries, and screams in the night?
Is it her inner feelings she bleeds just to be, just to match her inner core?
Or is it just she?
Can she ever just be?