Fallacious masks embodied with despondency and pessimism;
Darkened notions of subconciousness painted with an agglomeration of colours and shapes.
We are too naïve.
A plinth of porcelain holds an emptiness full of blasphemy,
As if it were an ornament of the prodigal son.
Our insides turn from white to crimson,
And the outside world maintains its tarnished brass colour,
Counterfeiting gold.
We are all covered in the inordinate dirt of our sins.
Wash your body well and let the blue lead you home.

Abstract shapes of various colours
Congregate against the viridescent canvas,
Ready to worship the thing that was hidden away for so long; arcane.
Prodigious circles of many talents,
A constant rotation of life and death.
A long road with no end.
Or a deep ocean with no beginning?
While the verdency of eau de Nil possess such entities,
The black and yellow striped obscurities peculate life and confer to the triangles.
Obnubilate.