A 70s Paris is what people dream about,
You have this perfect apartment,
Sunlight fills your room as you look onto the scene this city provides.
Napoleon built this city with pride,
the city that was built on Seine.

A Young Painter walks over to the rail,
He has a painting in his hand.
A painting that could beat this city in its beauty.

There is a small sunflower painted in the corner,
The painter must have painted this after the sunflower he saw that Sunday,
A sunflower in his father’s garden,
bent gently towards the sun.
It must’ve signified youth and hope for him.

Then there is a rose in the centre of the canvas,
The painter must have painted this after the rose she gave that day,
A rose so red it made the atmosphere misty,
A rose that withered and died when she left the other night.
It must’ve signified Blood from the blossom and the breaking of his heart.

and lastly,
There is a small lily, barely visible.
It’s hiding behind the red rose,
Telling us that after heartbreak comes death.
This little lily will be our last companion,
as they lower our body into our graves.

This canvas must have meant so much to him,
and still nobody wants to buy it from him.

Vincent Van Gogh,
Edgar Allan Poe,
Henry David Thoreau.

People respect the dead more than the living,
So the artist decides to be one of them.
One can’t live on a hungry stomach forever.

He keeps his canvas in a bag and puts it against a railing,
and jumps into the river,
the river that swallow the dirt of this city.