The Brushstroke Assassin

The canvas bleeds with a crimson sin,
Time has frozen over every stroke within.
The brush, like a scalpel, dissects the traits,
Seeking the terrible, naked void that waits.
A hidden design in the colors so thick,
The author steals the tones of the living quick.


Whisper of pigments... The magic of stains...
The painter's motive hidden, unseen it remains.

Припев
The Brushstroke Assassin arrives without a sound.
Creation is death, the perfect torment found.
The palette turns dark, the scaffold is ablaze,
A bridge between art and the end of days.
He paints your outline on a pale wall's space,
Leaving only memory in a stranger's place.


The graphite glides on the fractures of time,
He steals your final breath, a subtle crime.
Surrealism reflecting in dying eyes,
The form has dissolved into a thousand lies.
Inside this painting, you're merely a sketch,
Stars falling down from the wooden stretch.


Shadow on the easel... Velvet of illusions...
The mind is captive to aesthetic contusions.

Припев
The Brushstroke Assassin arrives without a sound.
Creation is death, the perfect torment found.
The palette turns dark, the scaffold is ablaze,
A bridge between art and the end of days.
He paints your outline on a pale wall's space,
Leaving only memory in a stranger's place.


The exhibition of fear is open tonight.
He'll mix his madness right into the gloss,
A genius creating an exquisite loss.
The masks are torn off, the viewer is blind,
This gallery's a solemn crypt left behind.

Припев
The Brushstroke Assassin arrives without a sound.
Creation is death, the perfect torment found.
The palette turns dark, the scaffold is ablaze,
A bridge between art and the end of days.
He paints your outline on a pale wall's space,
Leaving only memory in a stranger's place.