We hardly ever see him
He shuts himself up in that tiny apartment
And people say they hear him talking to himself
Some say
It sounds like
Others are in there with him
But no one ever enters or leaves his door
We assume he’s crazy
When he does come out to pick up a newspaper
He smells
And is dressed in ragged clothes
What else would you call him?
He has trapped himself in his tower
Because he has to get the stories out:
Wars between little girls and grown-up men
Red and yellow paints, flowers and butterflies,
Swords and gore
Illustrated volumes upon volumes
Of his world’s creation, history, and heroines
Is it strange for us to wonder if ending his suffering
Would be wrong?
He has tortured this prodigious epoch out of himself
He has translated his torment into beauty
Without any sort of influence
Diamond from coal, ice from vapor
He has made visible to us what otherwise
We would be blind to, with our limited vision:
Art about what’s inside a trapped survivor,
The art of a genius
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