Perfect Is An Illusion

I'm the artist, and perfection is the illusion I create.

With my hands chained and my mind left to wander free,

I only move a couple inches to paint my canvas, green like grass, white like wind, blue like sky, brown like soil and red.... like blood.

I have my own blood on my hands to paint red with.

But I won't let them know, all they know is that the colour I'm painting with is red paint,

The only true truth is,

I have red paint all over my hands and I will show them, this only existing truth,

I will weave it into one.

I continue to create art, portions of black and white and grey, portions of the rainbow, portions of blank canvas,

Background smitten with red paint.

A perfect illusion, a perfect truth, a perfect trap, they will fall for it,

And if they act smart and try to offer me bandages,

I'll create a different illusion specifically for them,

A new canvas, a new set of brushes and paints, new colours, new paintings,

Because if I wrap myself in bandages I am offered I'll be left with no canvas,

I'll have no colour, I'll have no art.

Because I'm the art I create, I'm the illusion, and the illusionist.

A perfect picture.