The painter's house

No soul, I slowly, sole of my creeping shadow
Enter, briskly, an incomplete and haunted meadow
Flesh of Grey, mats of Red, unfinished Blues
Voices of tainted furniture whispering for their Muse

No Man, he faintly, palm of his wretched hand
Fetches out for his tiny, dusty brush of land
Empty of thought and light, forgotten color
Songs of nostalgic gaps in a pile of blank paper

No Butcher's kitchen, as I have seen him seeking
No Butcher's chair, as he sat like a king in despair
A Painter's house, a picture on a wall so fair.