Dorian Grey and Me.

Hell found me. Like Dorian Grey my portrait took on all my misdeeds, a twist of fate, or black arts, it mattered not, the portrait held my sins.

A man's sins scar his soul and face so that all may see his disgrace, but mine seemed to pass me by, at least to the naked eye.

Oil and canvas in my vault, became deformed with all my faults. A cheating wife, a cut throat's knife, all etched deep into my canvas creep.

I stayed the same, my youthful countenance gaining fame. I was a model citizen for all to behold; my darkest crimes never told, until the day my blood runs cold.

That day has come, while taking a flower girl's life; I fell upon my knife. I could feel my blood run free, pooling on the ground below me. I looked to see my blood in vain, while I held my wound and writhed in pain.

The knife had not just cut my canvas creep; its wound had run very deep. Oil paint, not blood from my veins did seep.

Hell had found me. Darkness began to surround me. My portrait could no longer hold all of my evils it never told.