Like any writer he found words
Constructed sentences
And he put them on paper
On pages, in books
But he was one of the few
That dived deeper and deeper
Into the ocean of understanding
Finding the immortal words.
Coming back to the surface
The discrepancy was intolerable,
His true inner person couldn’t survive
In the world of reconciliation –
Here he had to hide his emptiness
Pretending in daylight
That the nightmares of the cruelty of death
Were the strength of his life
This involved a lot of pretense,
Playacting and talking himself up
And these character traits
He possessed in abundance
As a young man he had already given his soul
To the deities of literature
Who rewarded him over and over
In finding the words he was looking for
Indeed, his tragic end would suggest
There was a price to pay.
The nature and style of his life
as a sacrifice for the writing