Mounted high upon his mahogany desk,
those papers lined with embellished words;
Disguised with false echoes of majesty,
which tell the tales of fire and swords.

Forgetting all but one parable designed,
to open up a bleeding heart's wounds;
His inspired thoughts would float away,
in dubious flights of sights and sounds.

While caressing the pages so boldly grasped,
reminding him that words could hold the key;
To rescue the world and solve its weariness,
if only his heart would embrace validity.

Now struggling through these manuscripts,
with haunting visions of malice and grief;
His life torn apart from the wanton spirits,
while flowing cautiously toward a sense of relief.

Since living is heaven's gift to us all,
not just a plaything to scorn and toss;
We must carry the torch to higher ground,
despite our sacrifice and inevitable loss.