death of art

rembrandt!
oh, rembrand!
where have you gone?
the broken are downtrodden without your etchings;
i cannot believe that this world is worn,
the calmest and greatest of all your blessings.

van gogh!
oh, van gogh!
to where have you fled?
the sunflowers are wither in lack of your shine;
your room haunting arles is now without bed,
and all of us are sane, yet out of your mind.

tchaikovsky,
tchaikovsky!
where lies now your soul?
there dreaming of death and nutcrackers and swans;
i hark now the sugarplum's coming of old,
like queens who have crossed and checkered by mere pawns.

shakespeare,
oh shakespeare!
where for art thou?
mayhap lying still at stratford-'pon-avon;
why question the why, with pertinent how,
when can you let bygones be bygones begone.

plato,
dear plato!
stop hiding in caves,
stop thinking of logic, rhetoric and maths;
come masses and ages, all of this still waives,
yet, maybe one day we can proper cross paths.