Poem originally meant to be read in the attached format
Twas a portrait, puddles painted. No face of ours, am I acquainted. And yet wait still, for quite the visage, Something new, in someone's image. It wasn't quite, no frown nor fright. Though waters spill, from strokes of skill. Simple paints or mercury, The subject's hand was cursory. And so it melted, so it cried. Lines blurred heavy, and the viewer died.
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