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Topic: Reaper's Image

The Reaper's Image

A denominator, to the art-collectors above him, he viewed it with a practiced eye,
amazed at this, made by a shady character he presumed to be another dead guy.
He could find nothing throughout the thousands of masterpieces in different style,
As he searched through the aisles, irises crying at this fine art being oh so defiled.
Jaws were pried open, eyes hoping to catch a glance at another beautiful charter.
He saw something on the edge of it, but as his gaze pursued it'd withdraw farther.

"Yet what is this?" He questioned himself, but right next to him was another buyer,
He spoke with a vocabulary few use: "--- quite a time since that's been acquired.
Indeed, it's full of skill, some say it's suffused, but I just can't believe it's too much."
His digits played over the picture with a longing glance and his fingers gentle touch.
He hadn't heard what the man had said before that, possibly mumbling of a curse...
yet he had no time to be quite so polite as to ask him to reply, so he could buy first.
....
....


Later, at the buyer's house:

"How peculiar."

When he looked over the painting he swore he could see something, he was conned;
his digits played over the masterpiece, his attention drawn by a moving midnight blob.
He picked up the phone, looked down at the number that the seller had given to him,
eyes transfixed, skin gaunt as the blob would shift, and his countenance was so grim..
The creak of his joints, the twitch of his limbs, hints of obsession and the skies dim...
his phone ringed for eternity, willing the answer and completion of his mind's whim.


Then finally, there was a click, and then an infinite silence that seemed to go on forever,
and then the sound of the wind howling in agony, yet this wasn't actually the weather.
He was paralyzed, as a chattering sound was heard and every tiny voices screaming....
and the art collector could now truly believe this wasn't an ink blot, but really a demon.
...
...
...
The glass was shattered, yet this didn't matter, the creature was attached onto his art,
and the menace within the picture showed the continuing darkness etched in his heart.
He scrubbed at the dark skies, which changes from day to night, then the dark casket,
yet he couldn't remove the thing from it's country, like this evil was a dedicated fascist.
The neighbors complained about the racket, attacked yet this darkness wasn't finished,
he knew it was a drawing created from death, inside it contained the reaper's image.

And later, cops stormed into his old household and investigated to their very fullest,
and contemplated suicide, seeing the tortured body and that one embedded bullet.
One of them stared at the wall, a strange expression twisting his pale countenance,
revealing the culprit, but all that visible to him is the plain, which was mountainous.
Really, a demon stood a top of the largest hill, where his art auditorium balanced,
Resonating extreme malice, and on a mountain behind.. a dark and dreary palace.
Yet they didn't know, was what the picture would show, part of an eternal numeral.
Depicting the collector at a long stage of coffins, straight from his untimely funeral.


He screamed to be freed.


Yet no one could hear him, and no one did respond,
his eyes moved slowly to the drifting of this blob.....
his hair was a wild forest, his cheeks were a swamp,
yet couldn't tear himself away...
his gaze was drawn..


"What a very...interesting thing, he must have a very, VERY twisted type of taste,"
but the officer's talk fell on deaf ears, as that painting reflected in the deputies face.