The Empty Gallery

The walls proudly adorned of their nakedness

Seem cold without the Baroque embellishment,

Classical urns and Cubist duality.

The whites that once rested behind paintings

Squint with a brightness more than the rest,

Unused to usual yellowing of the sun.

Shadows that remarked upon the detail of Proserpina

Shirk blankness of walls and floors,

Parts of which seem newly uncovered.

Voices that brooded to a hush upon Rodin,

His natural emotionality enshrined in bronze, no longer

Serve as the anchor for those craving speechlessness.

In the silent vortex of a Pietà absent,

Mary’s sorrow does not haunt the halls as it once did

But atria of the mezzanine are awash with

Echoes of the divinity that here resided.

Picasso’s perspective abandons the gallery,

Leaving it but with a limited dimensionality.

The elaborate, personal derivations of the real yet stars that belong in dreams,

Colours that blushed a canvas with the poetry of lilies atop a reflective blue

Have etched impressions into walls and

In the ghosts of sounds that will forever stalk this empty gallery.




The photo is taken from Arnaav Bhavanani’s album: [ˈpraɦa]




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