The Death of Art

[Dark Muse]

The Death of Art

My fingers manage
to just graze the
broken glass
but this is not
another poem about bleeding;
let the shards speak
for themselves
for nor do I wish
to talk of reflections
and shattered reality,
leave behind
those painted words
that offer no sacrifice
but of the self,
for living in a stagnant pool.
Renouncing myself
to breath with greater ease
and I shall spin a tale
not of love and hate
but of a moment
a now
a realization that from here
there is no where else to go
it is all either death and life,
perceptions and misconceptions,
Nothing more is sacred,
it is all now been under the glass
and left scattered in figments
of our varied pigments
which tell the same old stories
mirrored in arachnid eyes.

[friedseabass]

I really enjoyed this. I find very little out there that still holds the impact poetry originally did, but I felt it here. Very good work.

[Dark Muse]

Thank you