A picture came to me in the darkness of night, Of myself in ten, twenty years time; Worn out with the struggle, weak, and no longer able to fight, Finally giving way to the forces ranged against me, Sad and grey and defeated.
The sketch : (in harsh charcoals)
This dream that came to me, Was as though I had finally and sadly, late in the day, Lost my innocence.
The Canvas : (Life, existence)
I had been high-minded and apologetic, Full of enthusiasms I didn’t quite mean, And guilt’s I didn’t understand. And now I stand looking at the man I could’ve been.
In Oils : (violent colours)
I had spent years thrashing around in confusion As drowning men pull each other under, As wave after wave we are swept away; Our cries obscured by the thunder.
My signature : (...)
See my writing on the wall, There’s no one to catch me when I fall; But Death was on my side: Suicide.