He had his heart attack the page, in its native tongue; a language he alone understood, but to utter it was a gift beyond his wordless grasp
Each stroke bore more emptiness than meaning; enticing loops and inviting spaces, where the devil lies, where the details breathe and suffocate
The same patterns, the same lines, fed to him by familiar foes; now the sermons languish from a man down, as he barrels deeper into obscurity
He can’t remember why the ink flows or why his trembling hand writes upon the wall; only the sillage of failure bethinks him of his worthless, wandering words
He knows he floats with the agent of his demise, on growing waves of discontent; for to fall upon his pen would be too perfect an ending
art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński
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