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,
Outright art.

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.


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