An Artist’s Last Will

I was, I still am, a maker. I had a gift and I used it
To capture life itself- the one gift I never treasured
Enough.

I have so little time left, I fear I may have lost
All I wanted to give to those I love.
And yet, I feel the cold hand of death
Beckoning me,
Telling me I must divide my spoils.

My treasures were my paintings.
I give them to my admirers, you who could scoff
At the sight of my painstaking brush strokes only
To gasp at them upon seeing critics pleased by
The same paintings. I never should have created for you.

What amount of fame could buy back my soul?
None, and yet I wish I could entrust it with you my
Dear, since I promised my soul to you so many lives ago.
I hope you will not think of it as empty; I gave you all I
Could but my art demanded more.

To my children, my creations not begotten of paint,
I give you my memories. Keep them well, I have so few
Left over, for my mind was preoccupied with my reflection.
The mirror told me that you were simply another
Crowd to adore me.

How could I forget about you, old friend? Pain, you have
Been my engine of inspiration even as I hated the feeling of
Your claws dragging out the sorrowful torment of my past.
Yet when I splashed those old shadows upon the canvas
I felt freer. It makes me miss that soothing haze.

Surely no one will forget my face
The galleries are littered
With my self-portraits.
Surely books about me will pile up
On the shelves of libraries.

If not, then Death, I will not give you my life.
I cannot, when I have so much more to make–
My hands will not cease until my strength fails.