A Painting For Demons (Halloween Poem)

 DAY 10 of my 13 Halloween themed poems! Only three more days to Halloween! Aren't you all excited? I know I am. Continuing the thrills is today's poem called "A Painting For Demons".
Its about an artist, who has their painting disqualified from an art gallery due to it bearing a dark influence. Spooky.

Enjoy!

Don't forget the other 13 DAYS To Halloween poems right here; DAY 1, DAY 2, DAY 3, DAY 4, DAY 5, DAY 6, DAY 7, DAY 8, and DAY 9.

A PAINTING FOR DEMONS

This artist has heard it all;

another dismissal, another rejection.

What he'd give to hear that call,

and be part of a gallery's selection.

The artist did come close recently,

a show made specially for Halloween,

but the painting was taken down almost instantly,

and removed from the scene.

Now it hangs at the artists home,

hanging above the mantelpiece,

made of the finest chrome.

It'll be gone, unless he pays the lease.

The excuse that was given,

upon disqualification,

was a crime completely unforgiven;

reminding folk of damnation.

Like eyes watching you go,

a feeling of dread takes over,

uncontrollable fear begins to show,

causing occupants to be as loathers.

At night, was at its worse.

When the building was closed,

dark figures standing in verse,

at the painting from which they rose.

Have you heard such a thing?

A painting too scary for display?

Such a reputation would make him king,

if only it'd come with pay.

The artist can't take all the credit,

his work was from an older design,

all he did was rework, and edit

giving it his own shine.

Supposedly, the painting was haunted,

but he was born a skeptic.

If anything it'll make it more wanted.

A good scare gives humans a kick.

Maybe in the morning, something will come,

he just needs a chance.

Something that'll repel the glum,

of having such a low stance.

Retiring to bed,

the artist thought nothing more,

though the art was stuck in his head,

along with visions of blood and gore.

Inhuman growls, and screams.

Burning eyes, and sharp fangs,

invading otherwise blissful dreams,

with a mocking in horrendous slang.

Claw like hands clinging.

Crushed by a forceful weight,

and a piercing whisper ringing;

“We love your work, its great”.

A sudden start, and air breathless.

The artists senses come to.

A nightmare from liquor is his guess,

then a fierce voice says; “you!”

Turning about face,

reveals the door widening,

by a being unseen, no trace.

Is there a point in hiding?

Still, the artist complies,

and skulks downstairs,

to a sight where normality dies.

Hand on heart, he swears.

Dark figures, black as pitch,

standing in rows.

Fading in and out, they switch,

and continue that disturbing pose.

One by one they go in turn,

as if observing,

and for a second the artist has concerns,

due to the scene that's quite unnerving.

Questions flood an overworked mind,

but fails to produce any answers.

All he can do is stare in kind,

as the spectators float in shadowy blurs.

Then in that moment,

the artist has a thought.

He's hosing an art event,

something he sought.

It may not be conventional,

and not what folk expect,

nor would it be acceptable,

but none before has given more respect.

As a struggling artist,

such as himself,

you work so hard to make the list,

to secure honourable wealth.

And when you hit rock bottom,

you'll take what you can.

In the spectral season of Autumn,

when creeping shadows are your fans.

Taking the scene in,

the artist stepped back,

revelling in his personal win,

no longer did he feel a hack.

The new day struck,

and the dark figures ceased.

The artists frame was stuck,

and his bravery had deceased.

Though granting no harm,

the shadows take their leave.

The artist isn't any less calm,

and feels the need to grieve.

Sitting in a darkened room,

with silence for company.

The artist feels only gloom,

and an aching heart that pleas.

He's not entirely sure,

if this was real or an illusion,

everything is as it were,

causing much confusion.

Perhaps they'll return,

and if so when?

Or can these spirits spurn?

What then?

The artist thinks and ponders,

how to win back the specters.

Afraid he may have squandered,

his one and only spectators.

Just as the thought was conceived,

two bright eyes stare from the darkness.

Clearly, the spirits didn't leave,

though happy, there's still distress.

Across the floor,

rolling at his feet,

an object he can't ignore,

making him jump out of his seat.

A paintbrush, dry as bone,

offered to him by the shroud.

They wish for his talents to hone,

they're not disappointed, they're proud.

With that the eyes disappear,

and the goal is set.

If this painting for demons made folk fear,

they haven't seen anything yet.