Do they create a melody?
Such monotony in the duplicates of delirium
A charade that tainted the soul of creators,
As many they inspired;
Blissfully they clasped the canvas,
Embracing traces of putrid ink stains.
Covering with scarlet paint amongst the burnt umber,
Repressing sentiments of enamorment,
Fingers clamped, quill in hand.

The master found itself overwhelmed
By the cacophony of brush strokes.
Deafening tones puncturing, the bespoke rhythms of droplets
Desecrating the workplace.

A heavy haven, hove from heaven,
Fragments of brittle stories
In its somber glory;
Teetered, tattered rags, rig the template
Spread out in callous allegory.
Amongst gardens of ebony, ivory, mahony
The sonorous cask speaking in gibberish atony.

Do they play that lustrous sound?
Review the mouth of the cunning vertebrae,
The effigies of landscapes.

Abstractions of words clad the canvas
In amorphous blobs, strung strings
Of thin inked lines piled amongst the bars.
A quintuplet of harmony barring noise
The resonance of the feather carressing the leaves.

So forth, the master drew his last stroke
The composer's œuvre of bleeding, soundless words
The chords of compromise between creasing,
Heaping canvases,
On hope of the sleeping crowds
To reverberate its symphony once more.