When I wrote an ode of elegy for you it had painted the picture of your own sombre. I draped my paint in the cloth of forgiveness but I could see no tint of mercy. My alphabets slipped upon the canvas and departed itself in the shelter of morose. I sketched the skeleton scales upon your cleavage where I could feel your breath breathing the air of breathlessness. I could erase your scalps upon your thighs and lay them down under the sun. But I could see no mercy and no texture of forgiveness. So I painted the picture of your posture by knitting them with threads of torment and tape of twinge. I can no longer write a villanelle or a sonnet to you, for your deeds hammered my fixed pieces of pain. Which echoes the bell of woe inside my empty mind. So I painted a picture of your aerial agony upon the unconscious canvas which throbs the calamity of cacophony.
/"A picture paints a thousand words" is an English language adage meaning that complex and sometimes multiple ideas can be conveyed by a single still image, which conveys its meaning or essence more effectively than a mere verbal description./