my body, or my soul?
both are detachable.
seeking solace in an empty frame,
ripped red curtains and a sole spotlight
(flickering, flickering, flickering)
in a long-forgotten gallery.

there are others here. i can feel them.
a graveyard of lost masterpieces.
once, we were all priceless.

The Collector hung us up high, then.
gilded us each, adorned in gold and rubies
and those damned red curtains.
then, one by one, He took a knife
and reduced our value to nothing.

He laughed, do you know that?
unplugged one of my spotlights
and took his dagger to my canvas
and slashed and slashed and slashed
and he laughed the whole time.
they often do, in places like these.

visitors do not come here, anymore.
the gallery is closed.
i think my last spotlight is due to go out.
i am not as upset as i should be.