The Painted Face

"...The candle flickered, and so did his shadow, till they became one in darkness.."

The paint brush in his hands quivered, spreading splashes of red,
The giant shadow danced as the flame of the candle flickered,
A smile, he drew, then a sad face, the eyes did the talking,
He won't move, for his shadow remains intact, inept for the world.

A fine line he drew, to divide, to create, the line grew, cold,
A fine line he drew, to stop, to make, the line grew, sad.

The shadow never grew tired, for ages, it just followed him,
But today it stands, still, its calm, as the storm approaches,
Its mayhem in his head, he clutches, he screams, then he sits,
The shadow paints, the fine lines that define emotions on the face.

The candle flickered, as it ate the moth that lingered around,
The shadow danced, rhythmic with that of the flame, steady, but chaotic.

The eyes looked back, as the brush painted them, created them with a cares,
The fine lines don't exist any more, for the face as a whole is alive,
The candle burns away into the night, slowly being eaten by its own light,
The shadow disappears, and all that is left is the painted face.