my mouth is blades:
It was a work of art.
By nature dangerous.
Every brush stroke, a fang.
A predator in oil and canvas.
What were you afraid of?
It’s only a mirror.
A promise to bite.
To cover you in charcoal, in ink.
A chance at the idyllic marred by red.
Personally I prefer to wait
to find a work thats ready to pounce.