I’m a lover of fine art,
The detail that comes,
With the texture of fresh silk,
Writings on the wall,
That have more meanings than graffiti,
So I’m trilingual,
Because the painting I procured yesterday,
Was seventy synonyms in itself,
Composed in a little cottage in London,
By an Egyptian wanderer,
An artefact that translates symbols to words.
A depiction that’s painted,
With the colourway of the rainbow,
It was colossal,
But By God, it was plain to see,
It gathered a flock of onlookers,
Discerning with great intent.
This was what swayed feline buttocks,
That made men thirst with lust,
The effect of a pen on paper,
Or a paint brush on canvas,
A subjective story of the mechanics,
The flutter of a writing hand.
But this isn’t poetry,
It’s a song that’s painted,
On canvas that’s your mind,
It has no one meaning,
Just as my attire isn’t just a kilt,
It’s a Scotsman’s robe and an Italian’s garment,
I’m a lover of fine art and so is your imagination.
– Smyekh David-West.