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Rowan Best
A Portland artist of mixed Polish ancestry whose alone and stressed,
He's been busy painting since late last christmas,
Portraits of himself portraying his own death in the pictures.
He has a hobby of creating vivid images onto single dried seeds.
It took patience; it took vigor.

He would bury those seeds into soil during the dead of winter,
By June, a canvas of wildflowers flourished on the grave of his sister.
Painting the outside of what his eyes saw, he couldn't figure out why he felt bitter.
A fine-tuned artist who finally got his mind clean from huffing,
Paint thinner; nothing fits, he's way thinner.
It was rare that he knew how to use his mind as he would lose it.

He was living out the back of a Buick, living out his backpack in St. Louis.
Hiking backwoods, hitching rides, using art bribes to earn a few cents.
Rowan Best, painting for a penny, just give him a paper, it's plenty.
Paintings have a way of portraying your brilliant mind.
The pain can't bring him to paint for the millionth time.
Scraping his flesh, watching as it's peeling away,
Still convinced that he's feeling fine.
Mixing flakes of his skin in the paint,
A piece of him is within every still design.

Looking back over those many symbols dressed in different colors,
Adding a hidden layer to his concepts that were veiled to others.
We will never know why
He eventually eradicated himself,
Eating Scheele's green for the arsenic high.
Gradually the changes took his mind down a particular pathway,
Not to mention he was living off prescription pills for back pain.
Debilitated, his last painting was done that day.

With a determined expression, Rowan picks up his brushes and begins to mix his colors,
With no urge or suggestion.
He throws paint on the canvas, watching as it drips into buckets.
He selects hues of vibrant blues and magnetic reds;
They reminded him of cardinals flying through the bushes.
Each stroke of his brush is carefully applied, the footage taking shape.
As the image combines with the shadows, a new world's taking place.

He merges with the canvas, becoming one with his creation.
His hands move with a purpose until he reaches his final destination.
Guided by an invisible force, he starts pacing, sweating as his heart starts racing.
As his last stroke hits the canvas, Rowan hits the floor, experiencing a cardiac arrest.
His arm hits the door as he falls out of the garage, clenching his chest, taking his final breath.
Behind him is a fresh painting,
Of himself multiplied a million times spinning out a spiral lens.