A Fugitive’s Fate

He ducked and danced, shrouded in mystery His thrice blasted chance had made him history He had toiled to live over the years And now his life was naught save tears.

All his friends, family, acquaintance Each relation ended in discontinuance The titles he earned and the respect he’d command Seemed like faint memories from a distant promenade.

Every Sunday visit to the Church, All the hymns he’d sung in mirth Now, when even the choirs seem to mock his fate The search for God seems another cruel bait.

Oh, the fortune he had amassed All the hurdles he had passed Seem but inconsequential detail Of a present, compared to its past, pale.

This moribund tale of a sorry fate Encapsulated by the aureate bounds of second rate Looks to be a waste of rhythm and rhyme A sad use of a poet’s time.

But remember O Reader that every Lore of Might Has its beginnings in a despairing night And all recounting of Sad Luck’s tale End in a Victorious Hero, Evil’s Fail.

Be sure to note this lesson in guise Of this sad tale of Man’s demise For when you’re stuck in an endless quagmire To learn the lesson in defeat, you’ll desire.

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