Technical stuff: Created with Prismacolor pencil over a watercolor, acrylic and ink wash. 15x20 inches. Took about 40 hours from start to finish. Balancing the shading scheme on the skulls and feathers was challenging.

The brilliant artwork of ~MadameGiry finally convinced me to get off my duff and get this piece finished. She must be THANKED!

Now, without further ado, may I please introduce my brother...

My younger brother TJ has never seen Phantom of the Opera, nor has he read any of the literature. He wrote this poem as something of an emotional purge. When I read it, Phantom of the Opera was the FIRST thing that came into my mind. He thought that was really cool, and with his kind permission, I include his poem in its entirety here with the final picture that it inspired. (Yes, I know that TJ goes off in a slightly different direction than 19th century France, but as the source of inspiration, his work definitely deserves recognition.)

Artwork is my creation. Poetry is TJ's creation. Neither may be used without the expressed consent of the respective parties.

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I Lied; It Wasn’t the Last Song About You

Come closer, I'll make you feel better.
This velvet plush below a fleshy purse.
Touch where you may child, my eyes have always said yes.
The warmth of our solitude, the quiet I finally hear,
I've never slept so well, nor have I since.
Softening silence beneath your soothing murmurs,
I'm mesmerized by the rhythm you set me in,
The pulse I feel as my brain shuts down,
And (The Intuitive, Refined, Secretive Recluse) pipe organ plays.

I stop to breath after hours cradled inside,
I finally fade to sleep, paranoia safely gone.
Feeling for 3 wild swans, dreaming in arms,
Reality crashes down as alarms go off,
And here I am, in your arms, armada of love.
Severely sea sick, fleeting a clinching reality, ship sinking,
Losing connection on the air I think I'm breathing.
Stop sucking the life out of me, catching me off guard,
And here outside, only in fire to hide, burning myself alive.

Fuck this faggot and my thoughts of letting him have it.
Forgive me master, my muse is meek.
I've hindered him from hiding everything from me you'll see,
I'm open and bleeding in a position which no one can be.
Such remorse for the course, sorry my heart has had it,
Fail in listening to the flutters, leave me feeling conflicted.
What is it, what the blue ball banshee is this?
Where my head thinks harder than my heart beats,
And my penis feels cut off from myself and I ignore it's needs?

I completely crumble under pressure, head ruptures.
Shut up . . . . . . shut up And now
I am in dire need of disaster
747 downing, burning filled with mental dignitaries
All over the scatter we've labeled life.
Subtle damnation after the confirmed internal combustion
Rusting and breaking the well worn machine
Faiths fallen down and the choice against construction sites and hell hurt.
Maybe sorry wasn't enough... another world shouldered wouldn't weigh me down.
She came feeling a bleeding desperation, saving an applause for me.