Mona Lisa - for me, he says.

Exquisite sorrow, buried earth deep in an inferior womb Speaks longingly, in quiet brushstrokes, Of its earnest imperfection, Retaining the spirit of Rejected Matter, in Defiance. Of aged and rustic instincts, The nurturing of Gardens and gargoyles, murmuring mysterious, Must satisfy all Predilection - which both Belittles and Bemuses Assumption. Life simply smiles, Framed. D. Nevills Sept 11, 2013