All artists are betrayed
He speaks to himself
The nurse sitting beside the pool
Reading his work in an open garden.
He wants to speak but is afraid
For her eyes may find his secrets
And despite all he dreams
Lonely and locked in rooms.
His fingers caress the pencil
The paper a vast landscape
The typewriter a torture machine
That mocks his every failure.
They never found the gun he hid
Small but lethal from close range
Kept for a time when sunset failed to visit
And the dawn could not be reached.