Never before was I to delight a suchlike chef d'oeuvre
Its mere presence imposes a taciturn remaining on me
Myriads of
galleries I have walked, indeed
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
An insidious urge embraces my psyche
To haphazardly drown me in a
spiral suction
Disgorged and spawned from the deviant
The frame now resembles a coffin for the gist
Impiously mounted in
disgust
With fever being the artistic medium
An apathic journey towards delirium:
Indispensable knowledge to interpret this
cryptichon
" Dismal relique,
Hideous parody of anthropoid contours,
You are far too monotone in your expression!
So cease,
obscure phoenix, cease to rise..."
Morose, I scrutinize each and every feature
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
q***r aftermath, confound me not!
On the spur of the moment I become
aware
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...!