Vanishing Act

Weeks and weeks go by.
He says nothing;
does not complain nor mimic the complainers,
neither praises nor condemns, neither whines
nor winces at the constant whining.
Instead,
insomniac, he sits at the keyboard, moaning,
clattering endlessly from just before dawn
until just before the following dawn.
He dreams
and dreams and dreams. Immediately
following the final flash of one particular
August sunset across the long green field
just outside his office window, he heaves
a sigh, leaves the keyboard to gather its
dust, says nothing again to anyone and,
lost in an awful, endless silence,
is gone.