by Nick Gisburne
He struggles, though a gifted, clever, child
To see the world as anything but bleak
By structures, odd, bizarre, he is beguiled
Constructing bottled cities, strange, unique
In every scene the detail is sublime
As though his hands imprison all he sees
But even here he replicates the grime
Pollution, poison, damage and disease
Meticulous creations, under glass
Provide him with acclaim he does not crave
His final piece, a perfect field of grass
Shows nothing but a headstone, on a grave
It reads, “He saw the tragedy of men”
The gifted child is never seen again
