We went to class,
and we analyzed him to death.
That could've been the cause of it...
I don't know. It's just how I imagined him.
Old man in a house all alone,
surrounded by black paper
and crows
and dark, stormy clouds,
probably some melodrama gothicism
inching into his bones,
every raised hand
and untrained answer
a food for the relentless ravens squawking outside the dirty windows
of his dank, dusty study
where he tried desperately to force paper
into understanding.
Sometimes I think he was closer to a psychologist
than a poet.
Anyway
He probably spent ages in there,
scratching and pulling at his wild and crazy hair
stepping slowly down, down
into the stone dungeon of his mind,
looking for something of
reason,
feeling the cold, grey walls for anything
that made sense.
- a very diligent adventurer.
And then!
Finding something,
I expect that he
would turn on his heel,
taking the steps three at a time
back up
the winding staircase
over the crumbley stone
and throw! the treasure out of the top castle window and onto the page
QUICKLY! So quickly, before it's gone!
And sighing, pick up his boots
and struggle back down to the place
where he first saw
he didn't know anything.
They always call him a writer,
but I think he was just being honest.
