The Painting That Hangs There

We have a painting in our living room
Hung on the wall by a solitary
String, a canvas of daffodils in bloom
Or tulips, or something just as cheery

That lights up the room “just so”, as we say,
“It livens up the place and gives it a
Je ne sais quoi –”, so it breaks the constant grey
That forces one to turn their eye away

To this magnificent art that we love
To hide behind. For beneath the canvas
Is a hole. No wall. Nor an alcove
Though this hole hides secrets through and through.

We don’t talk of it, nor see it, nor seek it out.
But rather pretend that the wall is solid,
For it does not present a room we’d flout
But one we strain ourselves to keep hid…

Oh! But do come stay in our family home!
With our carpets and doors and windows and all!
Though I warn you now: pray don’t take long to roam
Lest you discover your own painting upon the wall.

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