A frantic spirit, diseased by violence
Resigned to a life of desolate silence

Swamped in frustration, caged by futility
Wasting away in a desert of sterility

He can’t weave fiction, devoid of a muse
his words only emerge in monochrome hues

Hollow inside, unable to ignite
The artist’s flickering, fading light

He seals himself off, a tomb, caved
The walls painted in claws, bled, depraved

This writer would suffer his fate isolated
Shielding the world from the demons he created

Bit by bit, they eat him alive
These ideas, fed fat on his dwindling ambition and drive

And then through the cracks leaks a veil of a visage
A halo of sun, an incredible image

Locks of trapped stardust smooth over his pain
Piece by piece, makes the tin man whole again

She reaches in and tears the prison walls apart
Etches her smile across his concrete heart

In a water-fall laugh, his soul can regrow
Passion now streams through where blood used to flow

He drowns in her mariana-trench blue eyes
Picks up a pen, draws on wings, flies
Soars through the heavens with her at his side

Dives and pirouettes through lily-clouds laced,
With the ecstatic peace only diamonds encased

He looks down below, beyond the fields of foxbell
Spots a ruin of a crater, some poor man’s hell

A far off remembrance, some vague recollection,
a memory surfaces, emerging from

He recalls a graveyard and six feet of dirt,
A dreamer being crushed by a self-made earth

She pulls him in close, feeling him agonise,
Soaks up those nightmares, muffles those cries

She tells him to hush and ignore the fear,
All that’s ever been real is

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