Destroyed by Creation

The idea tapped him on his back,
using its long, figurative finger
to catch the attention of its author,
its sole creator.

The idea was born of passion,
of a writer’s utmost flow,
tipped in desperation
and relished in impossibility.

The man turned to his idea,
languorously taking in:
its features, physical and not,
wondering why its black heart
made him feel so cold.

The greedy monster
took the hands of the man,
leading him on as if it were real,
as if the idea could be touched,
tangible and tactile.

Even its creator
did not see the desolation
inside the eyes,
even the maker
could not be made to see
his crafted destruction.

Ravenously, the idea
gobbled the man down,
hardly relishing in the release
of the man’s soul,
his spirit now bound
to the idea itself.