These days lines express,
A meekness of the heart,
With intent to impress,
No longer for the art!

Loss of honest zeal it seems;
Introspection is in style;
But writing yourself in reams,
Loses appeal in passing while.

“Oh, my sorrowful heart does bleed!”
I read it rewritten by all,
But what purpose do you lead,
Beyond pity for your fall?

If nothing provoking you draw,
Your Passion Play will swiftly fade,
Slipshod, despite your emotion raw,
Worth little, and time must be paid.