you're a masterpiece
if you can call it that anymore
after swarms of followers
crowd you from me
and all i can see
is painful camera flashes
but small snapshots of you
hidden in your art gallery dungeon
shielded from harm and decay.
some time i'll look back on this day
recall just your burning face
and crazy frizzy hair
but i'll forget all the fancy words you spoke
and just remember
sun-dried reds and fiery oranges
of a watercolour painting
almost inaudible but for your
subtle brush strokes
of hidden enchantment.
another day
i'll smuggle myself to your heart
in a grandiose heist
and the newspapers will scream
and your fans will weep
but your former glory
has disappeared
in a cloud of exhaust smoke
and you've been packaged
to some old warehouse.
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