Disarray finds its grace lain upon the sloping shoulders of the saddest soul.
Hamlet, shall no one touch your spirit?
So shameless your name like the glen that is bordered by a darkening mist.
Your purpose finds no voice, but only a remorseful, groaning phrase.
Your words, misshapen, looking to find the wisdom of all, now gone,
Which cannot be found in your damnable, youth ridden gaze.
All shall weep for your destined eternity.