The Weeping Aetlier

Masters of the weeping aetlier
Paint portraits of their reflections:
Often their attention goes astray
So they lean on introspection.

Painting life through quixotic eyes,
Creating pieces of phantasma:
Children, stars in ample supply,
No suzerain miasmatic.

These artists evade all subjects real,
Those colors lost from their palette;
They paint what they wish to feel,
Not playing any critic's valet.

Naked, stoic, cubistic formats
Thought to contain vast sapience,
Brings the eyes cold, hard habitats
When they need precious innocence.

All landscapes breathe sights of great relief
When these decorous adepts work:
Model sunrise instead of grief;
Haughty simper, no scornful smirk.

Masters of the weeping aetlier
Viewed as convicts serving sentence;
Those inside see it another way
And their art provokes repentence.

Go on to Well, It Is MY Brain-Blob

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