by Chris G. Vaillancourt
Succinctly, as a pen being laid to rest,
The creative killer, foreign and tall.
A mixture of apathy was manifest;
Like a bowl of water, or a single call.
At Ouellette Avenue in Windsor he arrived,
His passions evident and surely not deprived.
Tired, and hungry, aching from several ailments,
He professed with affirmations of dark and light.
Known to be one openly seeking compliments,
To his friends, he was as fickle as day to night.
Heads turning as he yawned and then he spoke,
Of illustrations ripped to shreds, and also broke.
Enough of this professing of his constant labour!
His embraces as shallow as the love of his honesty.
Parables of nonsense were his party favours.
No relief to be had, no purpose to think free.
The young man would grow to old man nurtured
By the approaching chasm that is to be his future.
Last updated October 25, 2011