I just stumbled across an old poem that my husband wrote…
‘Twas melancholy, drew the poet near,
And through the misted window (long since blocked, should muse attempt escape)
Spied a lonely artisan, entombed in damp salon.
Walls that once hung red with lust,
Now leaned in, heavy with canvasses of misery and despair…
Such fate awaits all those who should,
From want of fame,
Throw out the perfumed oils,
And, instead of linseed and turpentine,
Prime the wells, with bile and vitriol.