Fifteen summers
passed and then another twenty
And everyone who
knew him, despite his ways,
Thought those
years like golden coins were never plenty,
Given, that is,
the great potential lost, the blaze
He might have made
had he been able. No glaze
Across the screen
prevented his demise, he spent, he
Wasted everything
they proffered, like rays
Expended in a
universe of shame, they went, they
Crossed impossible
distances of time and space
From the very
first contraction until the day
All slowed and
sloughed upon the empty shore
Where his corpse
was found. There was no more
To say, they
gathered up his dreams and slunk away:
His debts remained
unpaid, his talent wasted: what a bore!
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