The Death of Beauty

  I saw a crying artist

  Holding canvas and a flame

  He spoke of how mere paint and brush

  Could not express his pain.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  I met the last philosopher,

  He held a needle and a thread

  And before he sewed shut his lips,

  He told me philosophy was dead.

  I spoke to a singer,

  As she ate a meal of glass and tears

  No longer would she sing of love

  To a world that would not hear.

  I was watching a dancer

  As she tap danced on nails

  Spoke in tears of the death of art

  And put her shoes up for sale.

  I knew a historian

  He put a gun against his head

  And in hushed tones he told me

  Of all the heroes who had bled

  I was drinking with a satirist

  His pint of gasoline

  I joined him for a cigarette

  And a world that would not see.