In the gallery of silence, shadows bow to frames, Empty eyes of portraits whisper ancient names. Brushstrokes drip like blood from sacred skin, Truth imprisoned in a smirk too thin. Marble angels scream beneath the gilded dome, Violin veins trace paths to no known home. Each statue cracked not by time but grief, And beauty… oh beauty - a beggar, a thief. The drums begin -soft as funeral dust, Then rage erupts in symphonies of rust. A trumpet shrieks like a martyr’s vow, As art descends, wearing a paper crown. I saw her dancing where the walls collapse, Her eyes - a gallery of burning maps. She sang in colors only madmen see, A hymn of what we’ll never be. Guitar screams spiral like cathedral fire, Chords of chaos, dressed in black desire. A fresco bleeds from ceiling to stone, Each note -a kingdom overthrown. Now comes the organ, wrathful and divine, Each pipe a sermon that distorts the spine. A choir of ghosts chants “create, destroy,” Their echo - paint, their silence - void. And in the final breath - her voice, a knife, Carves into sound the death of life. Sculpted from ruin, forged in the unknown, Art is a god who dies alone.
