death of art

I grew tired of beauty,
I grew sick of art,
witnessed its slow whither, straight into death.

Ethereal patterns that keep me awake,
why must they make no mistake?
perfection is blindness to truth,
nature’s wonders only seem to make my heart ache.

My wary eyes trust no one,
deceit follows every melody,
every brushstroke kept me away,
from myself,
from the world.

The long-gone poets whisper in my ear,
sweet, wonderful lies,
they tell me of a land far from my weary life,
invite me to leave it all behind,
there is nowhere left to hide.