Art Utopia

A belle, ethereal and calm, Was cursed with eternal tears. Her grace was destined to decay, were that which caused her tears revealed. Her face, a sparkling mess of dew, Disguises all the pain within With rosy cheeks and crystal tears That crash upon the collarbone. "They're tears of joy," she would pronounce Lest all her charm should turn to stone, "Enjoyed by all except myself," Inside her heart she would bemoan. A muse of grief had she become, Provoking poets, painters, too, To make art out of tragedy; Pianos to articulate clandestine melancholic tones. Concealed must all her pain remain So Art Utopia sustains.