Distinction of war; fine as glass but less reflective.
A picture centered boldly,
distraught glass bathed in a tinted lacquer,
hung precariously
by cobweb thought.
Swivel light to warp the picture, re-angle and distort,
save for matter itself--
it is the premise you mandate,
so abstract, almost opaque.
What more of people can people tolerate?
Artist steady now your brushstrokes, quiver not your hand.
You bade such value to a picture so obscure and
expect we understand.
You meshed colors of such spectrum to be deciphered by those already at self-war,
and with such vehemence it is their alliance you demand,
when you've no further right than to implore.
Each color is so defined as to segregate,
with your easel nothing more than that which palpates
beneath the skin, as blood,
each new dimension so biased.
Thoughts form on infinite canvas with no borders, no frame.
Broader view ill-begotten by years of humanity; murky water, tainted paint.
You have an affinity to idolize your ego as divinity,
your utensils lodge like bones,
erect from your mouth;
excess teeth which bite like swords, guns,
such weaponry.
Artist do not force these colors down our throats,
for your art will never twice be analyzed in the same light.
You reject.
Each cursory new paint-drop is like the spatter of liquid life.
You affect.
Swallow not the paint lest it be our strife.
As you afflict.
For you paint a wrought opinion born to vindicate your "right".