Its mere presence imposes a taciturn remaining on me
But which master could brandish a palette of equal birth ?
A fragile colour scheme scattered upon the canvas
Shapeless in its sublimity and meant to endure
To haphazardly drown me in a spiral suction
The frame now resembles a coffin for the gist
Impiously mounted in disgust
With fever being the artistic medium
Indispensable knowledge to interpret this cryptichon
Hideous parody of anthropoid contours,
You are far too monotone in your expression !
So cease, obscure phoenix, cease to rise … ”
And endeavour to focus beyond the blatant
Still, deranged I am forced to give up
To languidly regret all of those “whens” and “whys”
In a final writhing with pain
I try to summon the significance of this allegory
That I peer at the ridiculous effigy of the painting’s creator
I am left to discern in frantic turmoil
That the draughtsman has worked his canvas in glass … !
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