by Nick Gisburne
The corridors of power seem to sigh,
Their walls adorned with portraits from the past.
For he who found a way to catch their eye,
The faces come alive again at last.
His fingertips extend to feed their flesh,
To give them grim deliverance from death,
And stirred by something human, something fresh,
Each kindled spirit steals a broken breath.
Convulsing on the canvas, tortured souls,
Tormented by revival’s toxic thrill,
Resist the reach of he whose touch controls
Their revenance, but not their need to kill.
With coils of colour, tongues of tight restraint,
They drag him to the prison of their paint.
