Art Shall be Thy Death

Hadst thou seen the Wilted flowers of the sun?
And heard their Withered lips murmur the silence of decay?
Perhaps t'was mine sculpture of lies
Her arms severed
from her body, no longer capable of a single embrace.
Yet, these are the arts of man,
Truth branded with an expiration date.

However long though, hadst thou,
before thy life drifts away
With the dust on the faded photographs
Encased in bronze frames,
I shall stand upon this bridge over lilied waters, waiting.
For, the shadow of a light glimmering in thine eyes
under that fated setting sun at dusk
Shall be eternal.