Beseech the words be kind, as once they were;
They smile and in their thudding pace depart.
The long delay has dried the wells of art,
Made all hope of continuing unsure.
The blood is silence thundering in the ears,
The ticking fan a most relieving noise —
Welcome distraction from the lack of voice
That plagued a failing brain so many years:
Alone, the inspiration lost and gone,
Procrastination triumphing at last,
Avenging all the hours idly passed
When opportunity, once spurned, moved on.
The Muse now knows that here she has no friend.
Her gift was paralyzed by disregard.
In righteous scorn she makes the easy hard,
And leaves a story flailing for its end.
No words will help, no end will come, and soon
Despair will enter in, with feline stealth;
Alas, these ashes of artistic wealth —
An author's desolation 'neath the moon.
— found in the living room of a suicide in Seattle, Washington, written in a hand not his own