An Epitaph

The days of happiness skedaddled And made a grimace out of the wrinkled face Which in a drunken stupor , saddled With the burden of desires , unlike a sage Broke into a lugubrious psalm. Spurs hallucinated, hampering the vision Hitherto held the verbosity to the mind. Brevity , the soul of the known wit and precision Was curtailed by the curtains making him blind, With the dead silhouette , bound to be embalmed. An escapist the rather practical man became Mortified by the rather inconvenient inadequacies. Of all the epitaphs ever scripted , it was a shame Written for one's own lifeless shell , the colloquies In an attempt to make oneself calm.