A careless thing, this untamed heart,
Ill-tempered be thy name.
This game defines a dying art:
The indelicacy of fame.

An excursion of the masses
To the doldrums of old age.
A misnomer to us all;
A bitter talent, digging graves.

Such a silent inquisition,
What a tailored verse of rhyme.
In an emptied daze of fiction, 
All-encompassed by our diction,
Must we choose to pass the time.
Pages brown and flowers wilt,

But never say a word;
For if they did, the world would tilt
And be eternally unheard.