They arrived bearing criticism pointedly honed.
Drove it across the canvas, then through the ribs under
said derivative like a last prayer,
said competent, that is, dead on arrival.
Still he painted; what else could he do?
His hands only knew this one language.
this desperate color and line vocabulary,
this hymn sung to a god who quit listening.
Every empty gallery another inch deeper,
Every kind charming work another nail,
every friend who stopped requesting to see his paintings
another eyewitness at the execution.
The stake traveled slowly.
Not the heart; always do they miss that.
Went by the faith, not the hope instead.
That he mattered for creating beauty, that it did.
But stakes here are as follows:
Vampires, for the undead,
for items that won't cease living
When any sensible creature would leave.
He's in the studio at sunrise now,
shedding color onto canvas,
the stake is still rooted but paint around it,
immortal in the only sense that matters.