all he had were his words
so long after being confined in solitude
words became an outside world
whiskey was his jailer
loss of imagination was inevitable
for a sojourner he stumbled upon the isle of belle
the nights become so cool for summer whenever he listens to the soft piano piece coming from the feminine windows
stars began to make meaning
pictures began to paint
words pour from the clicking typer
soon enough whiskey could no longer hold bounds
he found freedom
freedom by magic
by the magic of belle isle