What once was Parisian dreams,
slinks out of the warm sun
with a hint of abandonment.
The museum is silent now,
Except for the falling glass tears
of the nameless;
a weeping woman.
Critic muse the final piece,
sipping their acrylics, blended with
a dash of red wine.
Gripping the stem of their glasses with moldable judgement.
They place authenticity
Upon the staircase of eyes
enshrined in agony,
encased in oil.
Disjointed limbs slice
The composition.
A period of deep blues becomes
violent and bright.
The minotaurs are unleashed.
And the scattered fragments leftover
from their massacre, are hung in gold
and called cubism.
James Bowie high school
12