The Mistress Of Dark Art

The first one in a creative spree
Was swallowed by deep gloom
Erotic, wild fantasies
In the poorly lit bathroom
Scarlet strips on frail wrists
Were bleeding more and more
Before she fell on the dirty floor
Dead, forlorn, alone
Graceful lines on dismal pictures
Screamed about wet, secret wishes
Naked girls and razor blades
Scenes of her dramatic fate
The beauty of submissive postures
Painting was the pleasant torture
Scattered, elegant costumes
Sweet and bare mannequins
Brushes turned to dust
Because of a hungry, burning lust
And absence of a shy blush
Fading, silky shine
Of the silent, brown eyes
Was a sorrowful and ghastly sign
Of her lamentable demise
No! That day she died
But the legacy of thousands pictures will live in people's hearts
Devoured by eternity as the Mistress of dark art
The second one was fooled
By entrancing sounds of vile strings
Which played on her soul's wounds
Woven in deep corners of her perverted mind
Magnificent, dark music aroused a wish to fly
Bewitching melodies
Lured her at the window ledge
Cellos, violins
Shaped the imaginary stage
The final, desperate steps
Led her towards the tragic end
Strings played notes of farewell
And then... and then she fell
Moist air streams
Were pinching the pale, tired face
As if it was a dream
The fragile body met its grievous fate
But the music, she wrote, will never die
And thus she stayed alive
The third one was obsessed by lofty poetry
But something was amiss
A felling of the slowly growing agony
Troubled the young Miss
A secret, guilty pleasure
Was strangling with a rope
Will her life be fleeting
As fleeting as her hope
The mysterious magic of her words
To create depressive, charming worlds
Poured in ears like a deadly spell
It turned her life into hell
Sentences, entwined in serpentines
Besotted her like sour wine
Sheets of paper were decayed
It was the death embrace
In the darkest hour
She couldn't bear grievous thoughts
It killed the gentle flower
Without any tears and agonizing fears
She wrote the fateful, poignant lines
And tied the rope tight
She was so awfully tired
From lousy books, from phony looks
And histrionic desires
But it was in vain
Because her dear pain
Became a home for those who felt
The same, who wanted to cut a thread
Of their dreary lives
Who wanted to stop crying every lonely night
For those who wanted to learn a sincere smile
To rejoice at seeing the first rays of sunrise
Trapped in their own heads
They couldn't either hide or run away
There are many others
Believe me, this is true
For there never were stories of more woe
Than of the artists who were doomed.