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.
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