After his wife died
Robert lived alone
And spent his nights painting.
His colours were directly plucked from nature
Or so he thought
And he toiled for hours to get the images just right.
He would take them to art shows
And once won first prize
But never made it outside of the smaller events in the country towns.
When he died, his children came and buried him
No one was too sad.
A local woman named Edith announced one morning
That she had been visited by the ghost of Robert Martin,
She described the scene
That it was him, she recognised him,
he appeared before her as she lay in bed alone.
It was his face, but it had shrunken, and the skin had pulled back against the skull,
Dirt fell from his mouth
And his eyes were gone.
He held out his fingers toward her,
The bones had pushed through the skin
And she could see the rib bones through his torn and ruined shirt.
The worst thing was that he glowed like moonlight.
The women listened to Edith speak
And never again did she have any respect in town.
A grown woman telling a story like that, they said.
Reblogged this on boofey2010.