Dead art, empty shells of ideas like spend bullets from a cartridge
Full of euphoric honesty screaming truth and lies
Shot through the heart of the looker, listener, consumer
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Taken apart afterwards and dissected vigilantly
Torn down from walking upright to the level of the origin
Characters turned into ghosts lost from their creator
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Washed up artists, trying to recollect their children
Grieving and nostalgic for their return
Fade away into the backdrop that Shakespeare once called a stage
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Yesterday, ten years ago, five hundred years ago it was in the flesh
But now lost under the suppression of megapixels and audio files
It screams to be held once again in the soul of the populace
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For only in the moment the viewer is viewing
Does art come alive again
Without memory and digestion
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How can one keep from becoming a vegetable?