There was a young man who was shy.
His friends never did know exactly why
He could write like a fool,
But he spoke like a tool.
That melancholy boy makes me cry.

The chilled waters ease my mind.
A midnight feathered friend perches near the pool.
In this silence, my reflection seems to find
The same passion for life as this fluttering feathery jewel.

A visionary, with ambition fleeting,
staring off in space, entreating--
over whether this bleak and quite melancholy
winding path will end his mortal folly.
Perhaps it will set this pilgrim unto a great excursion,
into an elaborate and eloquent immersion,
down and through a set direction,
leading to his desired exaltation.
But, alas, his great potential remains shrouded;
a colossal shadow indeed clouds it--
Hauntingly floats a ghastly specter,
a barren image of a former mentor.
He was swiftly carried by Thanatos,
the boy left in catatonic comatose.

A plague beset upon his mind,
the young pilgrim doth find,
when veering through the innards of said specter,
there was present, some unknown vector:
guilt, no, regret perhaps?
What prevents him to elapse
the memory of a loved one now gone?
Why does the sunrise not bring about a sunny dawn?