| Never before was I to delight a suchlike chef d’oeuvre
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| Its mere presence imposes a taciturn remaining on me
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| Myriads of galleries I have walked, indeed
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| But which master could brandish a palette of equal birth?
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| A fragile colour scheme scattered upon the canvas
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| Shapeless in its sublimity and meant to endure
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| An insidious urge embraces my psyche
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| To haphazardly drown me in a spiral suction
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| Disgorged and spawned from the deviant
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| The frame now resembles a coffin for the gist
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| Impiously mounted in disgust
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| With fever being the artistic medium
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| An apathic journey towards delirium:
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| Indispensable knowledge to interpret this cryptichon
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| «Dismal relique
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| Hideous parody of anthropoid contours
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| You are far too monotone in your expression !
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| So cease, obscure phoenix, cease to rise … "
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| Morose, I scrutinize each and every feature
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| And endeavour to focus beyond the blatant
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| Still, deranged I am forced to give up
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| To languidly regret all of those «whens» and «whys»
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| In a final writhing with pain
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| I try to summon the significance of this allegory
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| Queer aftermath, confound me not !
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| On the spur of the moment I become aware
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| That I peer at the ridiculous effigy of the painting’s creator
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| I am left to discern in frantic turmoil
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| That the draughtsman has worked his canvas in glass … ! |