art is the whimpers of the dying flame of hope.

as da vinci sketched
virtruvian drawings
did the sheer reckless
atrocities in nature
ever make him sick to
his artistic stomach
a carousel of painted
horses with pinprick
pupils at the edge of
panic as they race in
circles yet never truly
make any bit of progress
while his ink smudged
hands lose sensations
in the rabid mistrust
in failing chemicals
saturating the entropy
in human abandonments.

the mystery is lost in
the listless penstrokes
refining definitions
until the magic is well
drained from atrophied
corpses still managing
to remain somewhat in a
state of semi-autonomy
moaning softly as they are
interred into the soil
to feed the bloated maggots
of good will in these
times of depressive civility
a malaise of mediocrity
that snuffs out the spark
in a cascading avalanche
covering the pensive art
in the filth of apathetic dismay.

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