Crisp was the quill that bled his likeness.
Feeble was the hand by which his vignette was sewn.
Repugnant and pallid, his portrait was lifeless-
An abject impression, brittle as bone.
Sunken were the eyes that flayed his figure.
Pitted was the canvas on which his scowl was etched.
Ghastly and rigid, the man was a specter-
An illusory philistine, the worst kind of wretch.
Entranced was the artist who birthed his visage.
Trembling were the fingers through which his ire flowed.
Reflective and haunting, this was no mere image-
A malodorous effigy, a bastardized ode.
Foolish were the ones who exalted his blindness.
Crooked was the world from which his whispers arose.
Wayward and grisly, it spread like a virus-
A memetic perversion, the drawing of Dusty Rose.
