Bleak Tower
Words fall in awkward silence,
crushed heart signaled its last woe.
Collected soul winds swirls on a spring night,
losing asleep in a bottle of ink.
A manuscript of acceptable horror,
dust blankets the unadorned pages.
Glass tears lay on an oak table,
shards of dreams and romance.
Pacing the room with a madness,
cannot compose a single line of darkness.
a token of worship not given to him.
Sprawled out on cheap mattress,
emotionally drained by venomous spirits.
His mind frozen like an engine block without oil.
Frustrated at his novel laying untouched by ink,
like marriage without great sex of long ago.
His fear contracting by the hour,
ready to be born in this bleak mire.
A stormy day harasses the window sill,
fast asleep with a dark liquid next to him.
Drunk before nine am,
his hand quiet and a heart splintered from failure.
Taking his life by alcohol poisoning.
A perfect ending to his horror novel.
