So in time-honored tradition, the poet writes his lines of verse
The rhymes seem to elude him the more he seeks the further from the rhythm he falls
deeper, deeper into an abyss that consumes all light, and the darkness envelopes him.
Hope dissipates with each beat of his slowing heart. The air is thick with a dank all-pervasive stench.
His lungs constrict and contract unable to inhale... slowly and surely he suffocates as his brain is starved and deprived of the life-giving blood that normally courses through his veins, that he so sorely needs now to survive.
The sounds that reach his ears are quiet, the silence is all-consuming until nothing is left of him.
Even the silence and utter darkness have deserted him.
He knows this place, he has been here before... oblivion... stupor, this and nothing more.