A true romantic of great wisdom,
And a soul or relentless injury,
Suffers both in this deep, despotic world.

He understands not every conversation,
But lends an ear to all,
And serves to moderate confusion,
And suffer for others when they fall.

He has in turn ridiculed his own self-preservation,
And in truth given himself to the power of mercy,
And shun himself from the divine temptations of the world,
In a less prosperous admission into the acceptance of the overlife.

He separates himself purposefully from all others,
Making eloquent decisions in simple tone,
And expressing those in grandiloquent lacerations,
To those who are so uncontrived as to not listen,
And accept him for whom he is.

It is for this reason as well as many others,
That he is fearing of asking questions of importance,
Of what their prudence could develop into,
A piece of the most tasteful art,
That it would bring tears to even the eyes,
Of a Michelangelo.

It is an abstract result to what he is in fear of,
And the colors of single opal shade,
With no variety or disfiguration -
No uniqueness or change;
No variety and a mundane orifice in tendrils of despair.

He gazes now upon his palette,
And contemplates what should be illustrated.
He chooses colors of amber hue,
Beginning the layout for the hapless shape.
He layers now and contrasts the colors,
And adds vivace to his speed,
As the painting starts to take shape,
And begins to swirl into strands of gold and bronze.
He acts hastily now and is incoherent of what has taken place:
His speed and vigor preyed victim upon his poor reference,
And clouded the image of what was to be.
He glances down on to the stained treasure,
And loses his desire to continue on.