(The death of Art)

Tsheyang, G11

I muse upon the grandest forms of old, That soared in splendor, both in sight and thought, Dancing through verse and canvas bold, Gleaming, casting shadows, for all they wrought.

The artistry of Vermeer’s subtle grace, Complementary hues weave an arcane tale, Gold and pearls, in streaming light encased, A glistening pearl earring defies time’s scale.

A fog of haze ushers in impressions, While unaltered hay withstands the tide, Clouds streak beneath the parasol’s concessions, Yet idly linger in the minds untried.

Banana taped upon a barren wall, A urinal declared the source of life, The well runs dry, now empty and appalled, Transformed, from virtue to vanity, Art’s strife.

No longer l’art pour l’art, its essence pure, Didactic aims now muddled and obscure, Neither aesthetic nor moral endure, But vanity itself, a hollow lure.

Here lies Composition VIII, reposed, Abstraction’s peak, transcendent and mystic, An elusive mirage, an enigma enclosed, Where once colossal beacons shone artistic.

As memories dim, their echoes drift to dreams, In tangled mazes of the minds unseen, Where winding trails through soulful hills unwind, And vanish into realms where dreams and truths align.