I am beginning to feel the pangs of being
Some painting one is ashamed of
and keeps facing the wall
In a basement storage room,
The stench of mildew intensifying
With every day that I sit here.
Y’know, I don’t mind so much.
After all, it is terribly amusing, I must say
To be meant for display,
Yet to function as an absorber of musty air
And only be viewed
By a visitor or two.
Is this how it was meant to be?
Perhaps, admiration in sunlit rooms
Never even was; maybe this, this darkness,
Is the only beauty to be had
In a world of unbearability.