Portrait of a Man in Red Chalk

A network of tangled veins buried under wearily sculptured visage pulling and grasping the sages of bygone years. A fountain up roaring and thundering underneath the naked sky visited seldom by some skulls, pulling and grasping. A drop of water sprinkled on many a year parched sand, dropped and drank in no instance to its thirstiness, pulling and grasping.  A hearth of clay into it fire burning into ashes, flames and continues, whereupon the clay reluctant to burning procession instead, blossoming its coldness and shine; pulling and grasping.  Those eyes, the eyes of thousands; those eyes, the eyes of none. Those high elevated check bones steeping deep and away out of the dents of the skies and the moons. Those tenacious brown balls built farther and deeper within their separate pale meadows. Those parched lines bulging out of every single brick, completely perpetuated and accomplished, concealing in every possible expression if it would've ever  touched its chateau of antiquity.