The Music Still Played

The music still plays, but the muse is dead

Atop his cold stone throne the artist sits

Made slave by that pernicious road he tread

Deaf to Insight’s voice, to falsehood submits

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Twirling gracelessly the vultures dance on

That beauty was slain - matters not to them

With Passion their guide, and bordem forgone

Mirth of any sort they shall not condemn

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Aware that smiles alone suppress their teeth

And Fearing that his name would become void

To their vapid whims he falls quick beneath

Dreaming of the muse he had once employed

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The music still plays, but the muse is dead

Of that artist’s name, nothing can be said

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