The pen drums by his side, absent-mindedly,
His eyes dart from one end to another.
His heart pumps slower with every breath,
As in a bottle his thoughts he smothers.
An empty page stares back at him, unkindly,
Taunting him, challenging him to return.
But where once a verse had taken shape,
Was left naught but an ugly burn.
Bloodstains, beauties, heartless homicide,
Under covers at night darkness shivers.
Fear grips him in waves, over and over again,
Words departed like arrows from their quivers.
The worlds between which he is trapped,
Pull at him like a rack, no heed to his cries.
One of the undefined beauty of words,
One a necktie which is a leash in disguise.
No respite from the pain, the lies, the hurt,
As each problem before him looks huge.
Understandably, left with no choice, he does,
In his trusted bottle always take refuge.
Age gave him no new verses, the page stays
Blank, he has nothing but lines on his brow.
Torn away from the world he loves, the blank
Page still taunting, what will you do now?
The circle is cold metal, the metal tastes bitter,
The hand shakes uncontrollably with fear.
The cold becomes heat, burning, purging
The metal goes through, leaving trailing red tears.
The paper in all its blank glory did taunt him,
To return to his world it willed him.
The necktie throttled and choked him until,
The unfinished verse, in the end, killed him.