The portrait wavers in the haze
Of motes and orbs scattered in the air.
Lonesome flickers moan and raze
The wall around its deathbed lair.

Candles stare into the wrecked abyss,
Watching whilst colours leech and shade.
The picture of life shrouded by the mist
Listens to Death's quiet lies and charades.

Afficionados and Artists mourn alike,
Though unsure if here truth lies pure.
Morning comes as a decisive strike;
Revealed, the deed is done.