<u>The Death of Beauty</u>


    <u> </u>


    I saw a crying artist


    Holding canvas and a flame


    He spoke of how mere paint and brush


    Could not express his pain.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    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.