More, Please

A troubled genius walked, esteemed, Prophesied potential burdening each step; The loving world surrounded him, embracing. He, crammed into this ordinary life, A lonesome cripple hearing but one word, The whispering world softly beckoning, “more,”

And so he walked, always looking back. Not for himself, but for them that called; They who cried in need, whilst he shouldered want. His voice echoed, hammering his skull, “More, more,” the voice demanded. And so he crawled, heeding the call.

Sandy prints erased by wind, Red marks covered with snow. The world spun, unwilling to stop And the teary genius dropped, Dream-filled eyes dead, he a shell, Their creator’s last wish, begging, “no more.”