The Death Of Genius
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The creators of stars
Have all perished.
There's no one left
To guide the slow arrow of beauty.
There's no Orpheus,
To tame the feral beasts,
With the sweetest of refrains.
No one to caress
The marble and stone;
No one to carve the perfect form.
No one to collect the sun
from the sapphire sea.
All that remains is to
Cannibalize old styles.
All that's left for us artists
Is to trace lines of light in the desert.
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