the writer

The Writer.


Dreamed of Hemingway,
out hunting gazelles;
he shot one and bragged
shamelessly about it when
sitting by the fireside
drinking gin.

But I heard him late at night
in his tent …crying, he had
created monster image of
himself, the tough guy, he
couldn’t escape.

Mind, he did in the end,
his brain splattered
on wallpaper, an abstract
pattern of dead thoughts.
and the unsaid.