Critics Poem by Samudra Bhowmick

White walls, full of frames
Dull paints within
Men in black suits inspect
And praise the brilliance
Of a painter so famous.
The young man confused
Listens to all his followers,
Stupefied by all he's expressed.
Looks at me, makes eye contact;
We smile, he walks, a second glass in hand.
I wash the pride that he vomits,
The others have forced it in.
He asks, 'what do you think? '
I say, 'they're plain shit.'