There I was, at that bar.
The waiter so familiar.
Slow jazz at the jukebox
Topped with occasional sips.
The bar lights, dull and old.
Underneath them, so many thoughts unfold.
Reckoning the profits and losses of an ordinary life.
Grumpy old faces everywhere.
Some sad, some inert and calm.
Some had tears and some remained dumb.
The door opened and she stepped in.
Sat beside me and asked for a Gin.
The waiter, although surprised, obeyed.
"You've been here before, haven't you?"
I looked up, the red lips opened again.
"You've been here before, haven't you?"
"For years beyond reckoning", said I.
Red lips opened again and a flash of white!
In that moment, I lost my strength and my might.
She had them perfect and eyes so blue.
Who is she? What she's doing here?
I had no clue.
Off with regular one, it is time of scotch.
A conversation stirred up, and so did the shots.
Shelley was her name and she was from north.
A singer she was, looking for a break,
The city might give her that, hoping for it.
Alone she came and nowhere to stay.
Asked for some directions, if I may.
I paid our bills and walked out in the dark.
Drove and took her to central park.
"My house is just around that corner.
Come, lets walk across the park."
She was a bit surprised yet she followed.
We walked inside and darkness had us swallowed.
Shadows of leaves played with moonlight.
Pale snow, smiled at me.
Mild breeze, whispered in my ears,
"It is time, don't miss it my dear.
She is young and so full of life."
I looked at her, she looked back,
Our eyes met and again a flash of white!
Her grip on my hand tightened
And I felt a sudden rush of blood in my heart.
It started beating faster.
My flat was dark, it was a powercut.
Lighted up couple of candles and in she came.
Sat on the couch and looked around.
I heard her voice as I prepared the wine .
"Did you draw all these?
They are dead for many years."
"They come to me every night,
They have all the time I need."
No words were left to say.
Her hands trembled as she took the glass.
"I have to go, will you drop me to an hotel?".
"Why so scared? Night is still young and true."
The painter of the dead shall draw a woman so alive.
"Tonight I shall draw none but you".
She rushed out but the door was locked.
She looked scared and screamed.
"Why me?"
"Because, you are beautiful, my love.
And I want to draw you with a harp and a white dove".
She turned around, came back in measured steps.
Sat quietly and took off her dress.
Her fair breasts looked so beautiful.
They were of perfect shape.
The white canvas beckoned me.
My charcoal ran all over it.
Slowly a figure started to appear.
"Oh! What am I drawing?
Who is this man?
With all his wrinkles and a charcoal in his hand?"
There was no lady in my canvas,
There was a man, old and ugly.
Sad was his gaze yet a smile on his face.
The window panes opened
And a gush of cold wind broke in.
The lights went out.
A shrill smile deafened my ears.
Her voice, no more sweet, came from afar.
"Painter of the dead will remain a painter of the dead".
In that pitch black darkness I sank.
It was morning again.
I found myself lying on the floor.
My head, arms and legs crying aloud in pain.
There were people shouting, machines screaming nearby.
I got up, looked out from the window.
My car, smashed against a tree
And they were trying to bring out a body from inside.
"What is this, the dead body got the same shirt I am wearing"
His face, I could not see,
With trembling footsteps I went back to the canvas,
A new picture was drawn there,
And the viewer was a dead me.
