The Man In The Frame.

Status: Finished

The Man In The Frame.

Status: Finished

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The Man In The Frame.

Poem by: Jonathan McQuillan

Details

Genre: Horror

Houses:

Summary

My first stab at poetry. Read and produce your own summary in your mind.

Summary

My first stab at poetry. Read and produce your own summary in your mind.

Content

Submitted: January 13, 2013

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Content

Submitted: January 13, 2013

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A A A


A boy of such charm and sweet.

The kindest of boy you’ll ever do meet.

Would paint and sculpt to fabulous galore.

His work his style you just could not ignore.

 

One day he stated “A portrait I shall craft.”

He shall be perfection, better than me”, he laughed.

So he worked away and drew in the skin.

Adding the bones, organs and the hair on its chin.

The body was done and so nearly complete.

But something seemed missing from this artistic feat.

“I shall add feelings of love, jealousy and despair to my sculpted plan.

For without his emotions he can never be a man.

 

Upon putting on the graceful finishing touch.

“Excuse me kind boy but my chin is a bit much.”

The voice was strange and said with a grin.

But what scared our boy more was that the voice came from the portrait within.

“How can you speak how can you be!”

“Well you created me boy can’t you not see?”

Our boy panicked and lunged desperately for a knife.

“You can’t kill me boy, not after giving me life.

 

“But speaking and being is not part of your design”.

“Oh hush boy you really do whine”.

The man was upset and rather quite cross.

“My arms are too long and my nose is just dross”.

 

“Cant you fix me and make me look divine.”

“Hurry dear boy I don’t have a lot of time.”

The more the boy changed the more the man became irate.

“Goodness sake you pathetic boy, why can’t you make me great!”

 

Struggle after struggle, might upon might.

Everything the boy did, it was never did right.

Tired the man grew, so he started to lash.

Out with the frame, his fists made to thrash.

Grabbed the boy by the neck and did he began to pound.

Beaten and bruised, our boy fell to the ground.

“Call yourself an artist, be yourself mortal.”

“Yet you can’t create what you think you know” he began to chortle.

 

“I know what is good and what is wrong”.

“And you my created foe just do not belong”.

“You are not a man you are but Beelzebub himself in the frame”.

“I shall destroy you and send you back to the hell in which you came”.

 

He tore and slashed, gashed and gored.

All pieces of canvas rained wastefully to the floor.

“How careless of me, to construct something so ghoulish.”

“Next time I will think first and not be so foolish”.

Upset and so tired, our boy left the room.

On the floor pieces of canvas wriggled, like a baby in the womb.

Twitching and blinking, regaining some composure.

Revenge will be swift, despite the broken artistic enclosure.

 

“One day he will paint, in another form I will return, that I have no doubt.”

“I shall strangle the boy to watch the light in his eyes burn out.”

“For I long to be no man, devil or even an illusion.”

“I aim to be great art and that is the conclusion.”


© Copyright 2016 Jonathan McQuillan. All rights reserved.

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