With mind in thought of relief to come. He set his work on a loathsome sum. In the night of his life, he wrote a dark poem, as madness set in, to his lonely dark home. A quill! A cut! A mark! A blot! First just a stroke. but than soon many more. but nothing would work. To even the score. Brow of sweat and cuts galore, Pain and sadness to wet the floor. A snip a snap. A tick a tack. With dizzying loss, and feeble mind, he wrote his last . . . wrote his last line.