He hated his life incredibly deeply
So he resigned from it incredibly meekly
He wrote poetry with passion so seething
That late evening paramours would recite it so deeply
Suicidal sons would read on and keep breathing
Loathsome lovers would repent for their cheating
His words float without effort, masterfully  perceiving
Of the harsh and real yet ensorcelled and believing
The lost and the ****** with one glance would find meaning
In a world so berift of love
Who knew when his bullet, right temple and pulled it, from the left side would fly a dove