A playful artist he was
Soulful, skillful, unafraid
Where his peers used brute force
His weapon was the pen
Its tip, like an arrow
Ink held in a well
Much as a quiver.
He was a man of ideas.
Thrust upon the great stage
Far too soon, before his time
Still, he held firm, fired his arms
Faithful lieutenants all around
He chose his battles with care
He learned the ways of the enemies
Before long, the young man
Was respected, feared, exhaulted.
But he suffered a darkness
His was an addiction of the heart
A thirst only quenched by woman’s touch
It drove him mad beyond reason.
Soon he would fall from grace.
Some still speak of him in whispers
Other don’t speak at all
In the end all that matters to him
Was getting the story, telling the truth
Even if doing so would lead to his fall.