He just wasn’t ready to step out of the door
He wasn’t ready to work in the light
He wasn’t ready to acknowledge his team
Though they had been knocking a lifetime
He wasn’t ready to bury his ego and embrace the chaos.

The blank page screams at him
The art that won’t come
The art that is fickle, teasing
And just out of reach

And what emerges from this struggle?
It is his ego splattered across the canvas
No spirit
No depth
No love for his art
Just compromise.

The old man stirred on his death bed
Looked back through time
Onto another road that he never travelled
And, summoning all the art that he would take to the grave
Breathed out.