An oil painting wilted;
abuse has shaped it's rotted form.
It's been to war
...and for too long;
unrecognizable is the artwork it's suppressed.
dripping midnight pitch upon the parquet floor;
oozing and decomposing before the spectators,
awed by a slow, painful rigormortis.
Whatever color showed, has long been stripped.
Whatever joy remained, has long been faded.
Whatever hand had painted, has long gone limp.
There is only a black square, oozing
'pon the parquet floor beneath it.
Exuding noxious odors,
foretelling disasters yet to come.