The Black Square

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. Simply dripping, 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.