The Bones of Artists

The bones of artists often burn in Hell,

All mortal formed aesthetic does soon fade,

For only Love will live forever well.

 

The modern maker’s locked inside a cell;

His selfishness and emptiness has made,

The bones of artists often burn in Hell.

 

But beauty as it was before it fell

Once held us all as one together bade,

And only Love would live forever well.

 

Now selfishness has killed the loving will

And left us burning in a fiery lake

Like bones of artists: often burning in Hell.

 

Oh how my ear so longs to hear the bell

That rings eternal on the coming day

When only Love will live forever well.

 

That day will come of which no man may tell

When never more shall we hear the sorry tale

Of bones of artists that often burn in Hell

And only then will Love live ‘ever well.

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