He summoned and gathered all the courage he could
Not that it was essential, but he speculated he should
And not that it was the first time, he had so done
For strangers he had written myriad rhymes, but not this one.
This was for himself, with thoughts true and pure
A memento of his pain, a disease without cure
So he lifted the pen, and wrote in words curled
‘I have given you so much,
that I have nothing else left
My soul, my heart, my life; as such
Now I am tired, I can’t anymore heft’
He drank away his pain and said goodbye to the world.
Next day they found his body on the bed
In his hands a bottle of poison, he fed
Expressing himself to the world for the last time.