some kind of existential crisis overtook the artist

then its warm now—
“Back hellish fiend from whence you came!”
embossed in tiles of flame and turpentine
his cloak adorned the shapeless body.
with a loathing countenance
the wrinkles on his face contrived in graphite,
the artist uses his hand
to tuck in the edges of the canvas,
into an formless wad.
“yes that’ll do.”

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/9ggzx0/on_an_anniversary/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/9g8zi8/plight_vi/