He would visit his muse no more,
And un-cumber not a soul.
Wisdom shall be tangled upon him like locks,
thoughts laid untidy...every picture blurred.
His arrows shall return to their quivers,
and his ink be preserved lest it dry.
He shall now dwell with the wind
and can only imagine himself fly.
There is nothing left for him to do,
Than live life from whole different angle.
Expression prison-ed and freedom hindered,
Cursing cry where tears was few,
Scream of horror where it's scarce.
And paintings made amidst gloomy hue
Is the vision he constantly stares.
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