He had a vision in his head.
To put pen to paper and complete a story.
With the idea fallen through he attempted a different avenue.
Work had gone along, but problems persisted.
Abandoning the story he once had hopes for,
he moved out of arts house and into purgatory of mind.
I only met him once, but he told quite a story.
of how he'd given up on art, and it nearly ended his life,
one he'd built on such personal glory.
He found he wasn't who he wanted to be
he wasn't who he thought he was.
We shared stories of the finer things,
wrote memoirs of the day.
Everything he built upon,
crashed down around his den.
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