The Death of Art

"I bid ado to this cruel world",
screamed the man with nothing to lose.
High upon the roof is where he stood.
His dominion was the glorious sky,
upon which his life would soon cease,
but also where his spirit would rise.

The man was sad, as sad as can be,
for the world knew him not,
and to him that meant everything.
He was an artist, the last of his kind.
As he stood on top of the world,
he looked back on his entire life.

In his early years, he knew not
the immense joys that came with art.
Born and raised in Tennessee,
he grew up in a home where his father
was a military man who loathed creativity.
So his art would not appear for awhile.

When he finally escaped the clutches
of those who had limited his growth,
his soul and his art began to explode.
With a immense passion he had never felt,
he became an artist who would soon
be the one to inspire the entire world.

He painted things so beautiful that they
invoked emotions in all who saw them.
His works brought life to the people,
and for that they put him on a pedestal.
Art was his reason to live, given to him
by those who loved his art so greatly.

As the years progressed, and he aged,
so did the society which once loved art.
They rejected him and all others like him,
for beauty in art was no longer appreciated.
Thus many artists soon turned to death,
for it was their only escape from this hell.

After all these years of being persecuted,
he was the last artist alive, and he knew it.
The rest of the world of course ignored
the final pleas of this artist scorned.
So as he jumped into the sky for the last time,
he waved to the world which let him die.