a writer so lost, amidst the right,
with a tear that to fall, his loss was a plight,
so stuck with the past, his eyes won't sight,
other than pictures and paintings, he drew when it was bright,
stoned and amazed, his eyes lost the light,
for what he thought he wrote, was no morning twilight,
letting himself to the dark, pretending it was night,
left out by the rest, left loose like a kite,
wrinkled gaze, brows uptight,
a thoughtful face, almost crinite,
made him think, a thought did smite,
that made him smile, and believe the rite,
far more broken, lost his might,
its time to get up, and finish the fight,
no need to scream, scratch or bite,
as GANDHI said, just be polite!!
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