It was Sunday, the day of madness, and I alone knew that.

Awakened in the midnight hours by another magnificent work

By the artist himself;




I’d spent the evening studying another of his masterpieces,

And I suppose that the indelible ochre ink he preferred

Stained my dreams;




I carried his ink and quill with me as I lay me down to sleep,

And, with great care, placed them on the night table

Nearest the door;




I laid down on his canvas, and covered myself in his melodies,

As the clock rang to announce the coming of midnight

And the silence grew louder still;




It had been Saturday, a day of merriment, a day of rejoicing,

But Saturday was no more, and the artist was indeed inspired

By its absence;




And in the darkness, he handed me a light - a painting,

A self portrait carved into a shard of the mirror I’d broken earlier,

Entitled - The Art of Loneliness.