With waves of sympathy for the poor,
A writer fired by zeal he was.
Whose words in ample measure stirred,
Emotions abound for a noble cause.

Even the angels would serenely whisper,
When the illustrious scribe sat to write.
Creative artistry filled the air,
As words formed a girdle of might.

Trapped in love, he wooed and wed,
The damsel he ardently sought.
Dame Luck seemed to have smiled her best,
As he tied the nuptial knot.

But alas! Then did descend,
An eerie pall of saturnine gloom.
Dried and withered, were the flowers of love,
Without ever emerging in bloom.

Relentless did surface the cracks,
That thawed and tore him apart.
Full of remorse, he began to abhor,
The one to whom he had lost his heart.

The Genius appeared indelibly misted
In drunken stupor, soaked in wine.
The dazzle and brilliance lost to darkness,
Tainted and tarnished, not to shine.

Then came a lesser woman,
By the merciful decree of fate.
Who nurtured him with loving care,
And made him happy and elate.

She wasn’t beautiful, but she was his,
That meant utmost to him.
His imagination, light by her languid eyes,
Even in the twilights darkening dim.

Resurrected, he began to scribe,
Lines of wisdom, in a triumphant note.
His creation wrapped, in warm applause,
For the populace to read and quote.

To this woman he owed his all,
Who stood by him, through thick and thin.
Who cajoled him to fight all odds,
And carve out an emphatic win.