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.

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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.