Silas has locked himself away in a skyscraping hotel
perched atop a Vegas casino
Belongings scattered throughout
like passenger train derailments

He was a writer with a jack knife vision
Now he gathers dust next to a windowsill graveyard
crumpled up beside his follow up novel
sloppily sprawled out
unfocused unedited and unlikable

Unable to cope with fame stress addictions
the last of dwindling fortunes
afford the luxury of
having everything delivered
He hides from the maids
thus
his only face to face contact
with the outside world consists of
quick frightening glimpses -
inquiring half-faces through the door
chain

Developed this shuffling submissive
walk to keep from falling over
compensating for dizziness
from stolen prescriptions
he doesn't need
and shouldn't have
Drowning his sorrows with grandeur -
Eating nothing but eggs
Drinking like a fish
to chase runaway pills
A stuck throat refuge
lulling him to sleep

Silas  drifts away into a comatose fate
Left dreaming
Hoping someone wants to ****** him
in his sleep
and end
the dull roar