White squares form

             a box

to lock us in the cages of

tedium,

chaining up

our

minds.

                        Pens and calculators become

                instruments of torture,

       with computers that brood like

smug

         executioners over

a valley of lost Souls.

                            You call it a Career;

                                  we call it Genocide.

There is no evidence,

no

bloody knives

or

smoking guns.

                             There is nothing but

                             tight-lipped mouths
                    
                                      and

                           hunched-over backs,

                      neatly-pressed clothes that

                       give witness to this crime.

                                                                     A pristine macabre;

                                                                                    The death of an Artist.