A Faded Painting

I've once seen people go in and out
of that beautiful gallery throughout

Awed with it's glittering splendor,
their eyes in a deep surrender

There stood a magnificent picture,
As if it was bathed in golden glitter
They'd always stop by to give it a praise
They would stand in front of it for days

For it was a painting wonderfully made,
Fine strokes of brush with marvelous shade

There it spoke only one language:
Perfection; an old dialect and adage

The people presented were curiously happy.
A child, an adult, fighting over candy
As the others just watched and laughed
Their joyously gay craft

The artist never thought of a glimpse of sorrow
Heck, the worst thing there was an unearthly wallow

And of course everything was accompanied by an aesthetic hue,
Colors that somehow don't know the word: adieu

But somehow I never seem to be amazed
of that painting people always crazed
For only I can see what it really is:
A picture no less than piss

They see fine strokes
When I see it in smokes

They see a marvelous shade
While I see a boring cascade

I beg them to give the gallery reprieve
But they never listen, they never leave

For I can see the colors dying
Yet why won't they start crying?
But I can't blame them for what they say,
Only I can see that picture fading away...

Reviews

[Kho-San]

This poem left me feeling sad. Maybe I came to it feeling pensive, but now I know that I am sad. It's a sad thing when art loses its beauty and colour fades away, for it is in the eyes of the beholder that it fades, and that makes the beholder an even sadder figure. Or perhaps it makes them wise.

Thank you for this poem.