Mortem Artis

the blighters rock

is set aside the golden lyre
forgot the pointed quill
the canvas stretched remains unspoiled
the wheel it sits quite still
no strings to sing a lover’s song
no ink a heart to spill
colours crack upon the wood
as art requires life’s skill
dust has gathered on the dreams
that fuelled his ballad’s fill
the muse has left the vacant form
no more to drive his will.

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