He locked his door and didn't open it again. 

People came and knocked, some tried to break the door down but no one could get to the man inside.

Some tried to dig underneath and break the floor but somehow they couldn't.

The poet smiled whenever he heard them try and get in. The piles of paper, filled with poetry, locked him in his abode.

But the poet was happy. All he needed in his life was ink, paper and poetry. His life was complete. He was happy and content.

Until it all came crashing down.

¶

The storm had raged through the land and left a path of devastation behind it. John had awoken it see that all his paper, all his poetry, had disappeared. 

It didn't occur to him that he could have died from the tree that had smashed into his two-room cottage.

John gripped onto the bark of the tree and climbed it. After several minutes, John had reached the top and gasped. When he had locked himself in his abode, a dense, flourishing forest had grown around him. Now, only stumps and strange metal things were left.

Confused, John ran and ran. 

Over the hills and across a small stream, John kept running. But he never stopped.

After about half an hour, the arrogant poet came across what looked like a town. A very large town at that. 

People were everywhere and the sound of talking and laughing filled the area. Horses and other animals were dotted around and John spotted sleek metal things lining some of the streets. 

John kept walking through the town and stalls were everywhere, with people shouting over each other, trying to make a profit.

John had lost track of time; He could have been in this town for hours when suddenly, a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him into a building. Startled, John spun around to face the person.

"How dare you...!" John started, but the woman kicked him. "What the bloody hel—"

The woman continued to kick John before speaking. 

"So you're the famous poet. The person who supposedly could not leave his cottage because he believed himself to be far more important than anyone else."  

"Of course, I'm John Howard," John announced, too proudly for his own good.

"Yeah, the same John Howard who killed poetry forever." 

John stumbled back. "Wha... What? How?"

The strange woman walked up to him.

"When you locked yourself away, you were one of the only poets left in the world. But thanks to your insistence, no poetry could become famous but over the decades, even your's became forgotten.

"So thank you, for killing off what I loved." 

The woman walked out the door and John followed quickly behind. But when he opened the door, he was only met with darkness.

¶

For every word he wrote, for every rhyme conceived,

The poet killed his passion.

Slowly, after time, he was forgotten.

Now a warning to those who might follow.

But the poet could still awaken from his nightmare, his prison.

But I wonder,

Could you?

~*~

Word count: 498

A/N: The last prompt in Aim to Engage 😭 Hope you've enjoyed these past 15 entries

Special thanks to Shreya_VA, xEmiliaForestx, DarkCamelot_Evince and NatashaDuncanDrake for all your comments and feedback :D 

Also, thanks to all who commented/voted as well :)