A gallery full of flawless art.
The colorful walls are lined with portraits.
My canvas face observes patiently.
The drones buzz around the room.
Stinging, they leave no honey.
Jagged lines, a black and white visage.
Swarms amass on the colored sheets,
Desperate for a hit of gratifying nectar.
My crude gaze has none to offer.
The incessant humming is deafening.
As I hang there, suspended, in neglect.
The sun sets; wasps return to their hives.
The artist who drafted me chose stark lines,
And hung me unfinished in that dark corner,
Reminding us of apathy for works in progress.
Nov 3, 2021
Nov 3, 2021 at 3:58 PM UTC
A gallery full of flawless art.
The colorful walls are lined with portraits.
My canvas face observes patiently.
The drones buzz around the room.
Stinging, they leave no honey.
Jagged lines, a black and white visage.
Swarms amass on the colored sheets,
Desperate for a hit of gratifying nectar.
My crude gaze has none to offer.
The incessant humming is deafening.
As I hang there, suspended, in neglect.
The sun sets; wasps return to their hives.
The artist who drafted me chose stark lines,
And hung me unfinished in that dark corner,
Reminding us of apathy for works in progress.
Request permission to use this poem