As the days begin to dwindle

and the deadlines draw nearer, 

the young artist 

sits at his desk

and stares at his hands, 

lamenting all of the lost time.

“The End is Nigh!” 

is scrawled on a note

fluttering by his feet,

and an old newspaper

heralding the END OF DAYS

floats on the breeze.

The artist doesn’t notice,

nor does he care.

To care would be admitting 

his connection to the physical world,

and removing him

from the state of 

self-described grandeur 

and self-inflicted panic

of the upcoming deadlines.

The painting he never finished

sits propped up 

against the farthest wall.

It’s waiting for the teacher 

to assign it a late grade, 

for being incomplete. 

It’s waiting for the 

jeers of the more productive

art students, 

who would have snickered at 

the state of the young artist. 

It’s waiting for the sigh of disappointment

from the mother 

who invested so much into her son’s dreams. 

But they’re all gone,

and the painting is unfinished, 

and the artist is alone, 

now cradling his head 

in a classroom completely empty,

torn between relief at survival,

and horror at his loneliness.

What can he do 

but wait for the deadline?

The young artist is finished with everything–

his painting, 

his schooling,

his career. 

In lieu of a signature, 

he signs his masterpiece:

“The End.”