He wrote upon the walls, in the abandoned halls, of his misfitting ways.

Wayward were his days, of poetry, motioned in the passionate oceans, in which he played, the songs of his state in grace.

Alone and zoned for a beautiful place, in candle lit eloquence he commenced, in subtle hints, of tomorrow.

Deplorably adorable, he swallowed the sorrow, of the pity of a horrible city of broken wit.

Smoking from his eyes, he politely denied, the open spaces and spotlights, in the flickering pieces of his soul thesis, scrawled in black felt, from a disharmonious whelp of feel bads.

Misguided and still glided onto the path, with his hand out, he shouts aloud,  lashing out, to pull the weak in, to see the sun again, as it shone through the broken window upon his heart, departing from him, the dark that killed him.