The Museum

Dedicated to all the artists

I wandered tombs of tomes from whence
hidden beneath the sacred site
did unsolved riddles’ sweet pretense
encase the mighty dynamite.

Escher could draw the puzzling
of steps and fish and belvedere
without the greasy sentiment
of painters with an obvious flare.
(He saw deeply inside the square
and took you there,
then took you THERE).

Schiele’s heart doth the darkness seek
for paradigms inside the face
mysterious and murkily
the beauty of the future’s taste.
His is the grace of master’s hand
delights in pigments of the blood.
He touched the wings of sacred sand
enfolded in the ancient shroud.

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