Rules

he followed the rules, of the bespoken tools
others would break them, he’s a foretoken fool

he squandered each day, by obeying the fray
a prisoner of self, ever losing his way

he wasted each night, no voice for his plight
no answers would come, no choice but to write

he’d never feel peace, as his questions increase
no eyes ever find him, the torment won’t cease

he’s destined to fail, it’s the image they hail
immured by delusion, their own private jail

he finds an accord, an escape from the horde
in releasing the pen, to fall on the sword

art: Portrait of Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshinavast by Ilya Repin