The Artist

He died from being an artist. Or was he a postman- delivering loveletters? Yes, he died of a broken heart.

He was a poet who lost his words. He misplaced them and couldn't find them anywhere.

He looked behind his fridge, he looked under his bed. He searched between the pages of the books on his shelves. In desperation, he even undressed his lamp and peeked under her shade.

He saw her bulb and wondered if maybe the words had evaporated due to her yellow heat. So he sat back and took a deep breath- he inhaled and he inhaled and he inhaled. Without exhaling.

His lungs exploded, shattering his ribs, which punctured his heart. And he died and he died and he died- all night long.