In a shadow draped, oppressive room,
he sat alone by candle light.
With pen to parchment, in the gloom,,
he wrote of mankind’s plight.

Haunting visions a raging tempest,
on a stormy sea of obsession.
Verses rose and fell in quest,
on the rolling waves of depression

He wrote sonnets and quatrains,
rhyming words of life and death.
Passionate and with sad refrains,
his heart, his soul, his breath.

Liquid inspiration in ink flowed,
line after line in black and white.
The fervor in his mind glowed,
with hell fire’s blazing light.

His hands now weak and worn with age,
made subservient to his muse.
Subjugated to write of rage,
his pent up passion to infuse.

This would be his greatest tome,
written of his unrequited love.
His heart within, heavy as stone,
as the angel of death hovered above.

He passed with pen still in hand,
spilled ink now blurring the pages.
Another poet passed as sand,
through the hour glass of the ages.

Mourned not nor known by many,
reclusive and deemed insane.
His poetry filled every cranny,
but no one knew his name.