Sunday, May 16, 2010

Art is Dead.

There's a book
a man wrote
that sits dusted and dog-eared
on a shelf in
a cabin
and the words sing
of a love that rings
if only we could listen
but the man is dead
and his book's unread
and his love has died with him.

Written with love his words
that I will never see,
I sing this song to his memory.

There is art
in a safe
held by a rich and broken widow
and the paintings scream
with the artist's dreams
and all his love lorn bleeding
but it's dark in the hold
as the paintings grow old
and the widow just grows richer
for the man is dead
and the paint that he bled
has been turned into numbers.

Painted with love his art
that I will never see.

I sing this song to his memory.

In the dark light
there's a boy tonight
who is singing a song of her.
And his fingers bleed
as he sings of his need
to just once hold her.
And if I close my eys
I can hear his cries
like a nightingale weeping,
for she is dead
and the song in his head
will never, ever reach her.

Written with love these words
that you will never see.

I sing this song
to your
memory.

x

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