Gallery.

Today I went to the gallery; I wore my spectacles so I could see the shapes clearly:
 
A portrait in the gallery, blessed with a platinum frame,
It shimmers under the display lights like a spoilt child,
Ignorant to dimness encasing the glow - the shade around a star.
 
No man can agree from what the paper had been made,
But, if something looked white enough,
 Then it was credible to the curators.
For it was, of course, the grotesque truth upon in that invited his sisters to flock:
 
The shadowy King with fingers that sharpened at the tips,
Like ebony pins had been fed to his hands -
Around these points, a glorious robe - open only to the vivisection:
His organs on display, divided and ashen, like discarded dolls.
 
He would have been clutching his lungs if it were not for the other attachments:
A sylph-like figure that dwarfed in size - she is full of body yet devoid of face,
The ageless queen with caves for eyes, crystals for brain stems, and strings for veins.
 
They are tied together in a dance of bondage - The puppet and the puppeteer becoming one.
 Inky tremors are born of the shivers, wholly and simple.
 
Fleshy ropes protruding from the sky-siren’s wrists had enclosed the man’s fingers,
And his lower arm - the faces contort and mould into the same androgynous sludge.
 
‘Who is the man and who is the woman?’ - A question often murmured by curious tourists.
Keen to criticize the alien image, not noticing,
Their blurred portraits in the reflection of the protective case.
 
Tomorrow I will go the gallery, and I will leave my spectacles at home.