I am not sad in case you wonder so;
nor do I wish to punish fellow man
that my existence has not gone as planned;
nor cause you guilt because I choose to go.
I am but tired of merely place and show,
a never-winning favorite of the fans;
the faceless fans who cheer from ghostly stands,
vicarious reapers of what others sow.
Thus, I must leave, but yet not as I came,
with melancholy questions of the soul.
I die to life that always bore the shame
of one who failed the grievous tasks of goal;
and live to death who does not stoop to blame,
but gathers blemished children as though whole.
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