Never before was I to delight a suchlike chef d’oeuvrenIts mere presence imposes a taciturn remaining on mennMyriads of galleries I have walked, indeednBut which master could brandish a palette of equal birth ?nA fragile colour scheme scattered upon the canvasnShapeless in its sublimity and meant to endurennAn insidious urge embraces my psychenTo haphazardly drown me in a spiral suctionnnDisgorged and spawned from the deviantnThe frame now resembles a coffin for the gistnImpiously mounted in disgustnWith fever being the artistic mediumnnAn apathic journey towards delirium:nIndispensable knowledge to interpret this cryptichonnn“ Dismal relique,nHideous parody of anthropoid contours,nYou are far too monotone in your expression !nSo cease, obscure phoenix, cease to rise … ”nnMorose, I scrutinize each and every featurenAnd endeavour to focus beyond the blatantnStill, deranged I am forced to give upnTo languidly regret all of those “whens” and “whys”nnnIn a final writhing with painnI try to summon the significance of this allegorynnQueer aftermath, confound me not !nnOn the spur of the moment I become awarenThat I peer at the ridiculous effigy of the painting’s creatornI am left to discern in frantic turmoilnThat the draughtsman has worked his canvas in glass … !