Did Thou Confide In Me....

Bold strokes of a confident hand,

The painting is a masterpiece,

Executed as planned...

Does it expound the inexplicable fright, one that is to none but, me - so utterly explicable?

The fear does it ransack the core of the portrait of beauty that recites,

A dirge of the long-departed; the fear, must it traverse with golden eyes and voracious sights; the fear, long hurled at the beauty of true art,

Is not but, ineluctable a fright, one that is not, but, one that beseeches nothing in plethora,

But a read with concern is seemingly the entirety it implores for.

Oh the sacrosanct purple of graceful a Laurel,

Am I so oft a captive of the spring of! doomed am I to conceive a confrontation of a kind as one am I so coerced to heed an encounter with; And do hear me Almighty so pure for is it not a delirium I dwell in the vacant paving of,

One that itself is vagrant enough to rejoice the accompaniment of one;

Is it clumsy an assertion of my own?

Feared is not the piece of colored a piece,

Nor is it the silouette portrayed with the dark of vapid graphite,

One that is to all but, not is the latter so for the one the same slipped from in betwixt the hands of,

For doer hath he been in the pursuit of the true eternity of sweet an elixir; feared, am I.

So palpable an inferior touch on me soul so bewildered is it - so inferior a touch.

Tell I myself to part with the company of inquiries that so have been,

And that long art to be even more welcoming to the open doors of intractable an enigma, yet,

Can the power of a nothingness slay the elated affliction that delves in deeper unto the abode of clever a dilemma?