I must have been so loaded,so loaded that my head exploded,smashed to smithereens,reminiscent of a scene in one of Dante's paintings and painted tight into a corner,I turned, burnt black against the washed out white and looked out from the canvas screen.
What has been will always be and I'm some figure hanging in a gallery,gawked at by the crowds that pass me by,who do not see the tears I cry behind the cracked and flaking strokes and yet more than the brush which set me here to look magnificent to those that peer at me,poor me,no man knows more than history but all who look know more than I can see,me and my eyes are fixed and staring out when all I want to do is shout,'release me from the frame',and so odd it is that the artist did not give a name to his creation .placed upon this wall.
I look on all who look on me and my life is this gallery wherein I hang in misery,where once I sang in harmony,poor me,poor me,look upon and you will see,poor me,poor me,
an unknown in the gallery never hanging free,
just hanging.