The beginning is faded.

The end is legible to a certain point.

It's taken five hours and it's just a pale imitation

Of art.

The paper crinkles, and I know

It doesn't mean anything

Because it's not real

It's just the imitation of

Anything it has to be.

And somewhere the original stands

And the universe is different because

Circumstances changed

And I wasn't too busy to save you.

See; art is just a pale imitation without a muse

And this time it wasn't one of those beautiful suicides they spoke about; no

I doubt it could be anything more than pointless.

I guess I'm an existentialist that way;

This is it

This is all

And art is just a pale imitation.