The abnormal artist sits at his desk, Sketching his nightmares; and it's so grotesque,
To reflect himself; he's scared of mirrors, Compare ugliness to painted terrors,
Through the spout, recoils a hopeful new thought, Here to fill the space this emptiness brought,
A Perspective on self is more profound, Than vanities stray on a folly cloud.
Our meaning drives the motive that supplies, Anxieties where the painting collides,
Staring back with it's marvelous intent, There's a cascade of truth; what's different?
Turpitude doesn't exist within or out, The gallery around you evokes doubt.