Black Paintings

In the lugubrious hush of evening’s breath,
Where shadow gleams upon the plastered wall,
I wander through a gallery of death,
Whispers of madness in each sombre hall.

No gentle light dares trespass here or stay;
The pigments bleed with anguish—black, untrue,
As if the night itself had found its way
To sear the soul, unmask the tortured view.

Behold the Titan, ravenous with dread,
His limbs convulsed in Saturn’s fiendish maw—
He rends the flesh, devours the hope once bled,
And laughs through carnage what the fates foresaw.

There, crones lean over broth of silent fear,
Old eyes as hollow as a skull’s caved dome;
Their goblet holds the bitter cup of years,
No mercy flows in that deteriorate home.

Across the gloom, two figures fight with rods,
Each stroke a hymn to ruin, mud and shame;
Their forms half sunk in horrors, unknown gods
Smiling as they dance in fury’s name.

A swordless Judith, torch’s flicker dim,
Stands poised in shadows, both avenger and prey;
Her victim lies beyond our mortal rim,
His head dissolved in night’s eternal gray.

In corridors where fate’s Atropos treads,
She severs threads unseen, cuts doom at will;
No mortal hand may halt the loom she spreads,
Her shears in darkness sing upon the sill.

These walls were never meant for public gaze,
But born of suffering, of a mind undone;
An artist’s tomb, in pigment’s cruel haze,
Where hope expires beneath the absent sun.

So wander here, in silence, in this grief,
Let spectres peer and question what is true—
For in these Black Paintings, in this dark motif,
We glimpse the void, and all it says of you.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Paintings