The Artist

His latest masterpiece is unforgettable,
her dress painted with blood spilled by his hands.
Her pallid complexion glows, purple-black bruises
stained with her tears, dampened with sweat
from his days-long creative torture sessions.

Her left eyeball hangs to her sunken cheek,
like a grotesque mole looming near her mouth.
His needlework is to be admired,
black-thread sutures through her eyelids and lips,
trademark designs of terror.

He is brilliant at bringing out inner beauty.
Eviscerating his chosen, he shows them
what truly matters in life. He explores
their gaping wounds, seeks to touch their souls.
He has fingered many hearts in the process.

Of those he deems worthy, he carves, dismembers,
slices, peels, reconstructing sinew and bone
in pursuit of perfection, he lusts and desires—
the look of a macabre Venus de Milo.
Except his sculptures are headless, too.

Cloaked in the shadows of gathering ghouls,
he stares as authorities shield his creations
from morbid, curious audiences.
He slithers away as crime scene cameras flash,
as white-sheet curtains fall across the corpses.

A master at his craft, he dissects women
into the ideal image inspired by
dark art conceived and nurtured in his mind.
He has found a niche in his extreme makeovers
and never plans to have a shortage of victims.