Ashes Remain

[Martyr]

Beautiful strokes of vibrant colors
help cover the virgin canvas.
The artist pulls out his handkercheif
to dry the sweat pouring down his wrinkled face.
Exhaustion is gravity pulling his eyes to the surface.
With much effort, the eyes open back
to have one last look around.
The sun is a thousand lighters on his back,
welts are reverberating across the poor, old mans calloused body.
His arthritis plaqued hands take there last stand,
firmly grasping the magma sand in his hands,
letting it slowly fall over his parched lips,
and into the dry, white cave of a mouth
in the hope to extract any remnant's of water left.
He's obviously unsuccessful, but in the confusion
the plan was flawless.
He chokes on the sand
and his last breath leaves his prune lungs.
The sun has taken another, ashes are all that's left.
What a beautiful piece of art,
I have painted, eh?

[Spekz.]

Read Rules

...leave Links

[Märtyr]

It's me spekz, I have fed ALOT of pieces.. I'll get the links later though.

[Märtyr]

uppp

[Compton.]

Wow, I can honestly say I really liked the imagery portrayed in this piece, was really nice to read and I have got to say, REALLY easy to follow. Wording was done real nice, a good read in that department.

Quite an interesting little story too, might not be the most original but I like the way you did it...

The sarcasm at the end went really nice aswell lol.

Sorry for the shit feed, just woken up and I'm struggling to find things to say atm. Hit me up in a couple of hours if you want a more extensive analysis, I'll be more than happy to do it.

[Märtyr]

Thanks man. Up.

[Rah Gwahn]

Beautiful strokes of vibrant colors
help cover the virgin canvas.
The artist pulls out his handkercheif
to dry the sweat pouring down his wrinkled face.
Exhaustion is gravity pulling his eyes to the surface.
With much effort, the eyes open back
to have one last look around.
The sun is a thousand lighters on his back,
welts are reverberating across the poor, old mans calloused body.
His arthritis plaqued hands take their last stand,
firmly grasping the magma sand in his hands,
letting it slowly fall over his parched lips,
and into the dry, white cave of a mouth
in the hope to extract any remnant's of water left.
He's obviously unsuccessful, but in the confusion
the plan was flawless.
He chokes on the sand
and his last breath leaves his prune lungs.
The sun has taken another, ashes are all that's left.
What a beautiful piece of art,
I have painted, eh?

It seems like a story written 'semi-mysteriously'. The bloke's not introduced, he's got no background so all we get is the image of him drying out, dying. It could represent a few things, but, it doesn't interestingly enough.

I could go on to install some metaphoric relationship between this and some random thought, but I won't bother because I think you wrote it with the intention of not providing enough mystery for the reader to do that. My conclusion is that you simply wanted to paint a picture for the reader to build an image upon, and to feel a certain feeling. I'm guessing that feeling is a thirst for something, or a pressure of some kind, 'a beautiful struggle' so to speak.

The brown part i've highlighted is a stanza I fell out with; you overused hands (underlined), it stood out instantly. And also the image you were building of this guy got wobbly there, I seemed to imagine these parched, feeble hands being weak and dried out, and then you say 'firmly grasped' right after. It made me have to stop and consider the situation again, and in the end I decided to overlook it and mention it instead haha. The bold part is a contextual mistake, you said 'there' instead of 'their'.

Overall I enjoyed the read bro, it was interesting to think about what you aimed to achieve and in the end, I guess after talking to you alot, I've decided you probably didn't aim to achieve anything except a detailed image to represent this bloke. Done well, tiny weakness that i've highlighted, good work man.

If you will, hit my latest up:
"Speak"
Cheers.

[Märtyr]

I'm not hitting shit bitch.