Exsanguination at the Easel’s Alter

Strangely subdued, she surrenders to our intentions,
Minimal restraints required, posed perfectly.
Diabolical benediction spoken from the host’s mouth,
Sarcasm perpetuating through every word.

Outline paint required, torniquet tightened, needle penetrates,
As the needles of his eyes penetrate my inner thoughts.
My deception unveiled.
Crimson fluid pumps into the vial, expecting the dip of my brush.

Meticulously, I produce my art, his gaze burns with each stroke.
Outlining the haughtily submissive angel, I mar the canvas,
The unblemished habit forming within the scene.
Unblemished and innocent, my love letter to him.

A second vial required, coolly I fix her with my stare,
Knowing that her piety will deny me any response,
For she has faith.

Dyer-Bolique’s faith is lacking, but the potent chemistry remains,
Acid and lye, simmering, preparing for a mighty explosion.
Etching the canvas mirrors my etching of her frail skin,
The night drags on.

Her lips click with an arid thirst, but the seal remains closed,
Her hands cross on her trembling lap, the trembling consumes.
A wasted meal, for the mutton is tough, indigestible, noxious,
My antics prove less palatable as he relishes and loathes the test.

A final vial ensures closure, our masterpiece complete,
The Werther to his Goethe, despised for the truths within.
Exsanguinated and at peace, inflamed and charred,
But through the canvas her legacy lives on.

His wrath tears through as we become one,
Uncontrollable,
Unhinged.
I fear that I may win this tournament,
But have a more insidious game at hand.