How did you do it, Arthur?
How could your first death
come so soon?

How could you commit spiritual suicide
at a tender age, with a bright path ahead
for your magical, magnetic word crafts?

Or was it because you were young, a born wanderer
in search of a place where a precocious rebel like you belonged,
you realized it was never your passion?

Was it really for steady clings of coins,
or was it a tough decision, in the mixture of
a fractured heart, a shadow of the past that made you hollow, and the elusive society that cursed you never again to cast your enchanting spells?

If a Wunderkind like you could throw your quill into the bin,
why can’t a flat note like me quit,
and resist the temptation to weave lines?

Tell me how, because I don’t blame you.
If anything, I wish to follow your journey,
for this is no longer passion, but mere addiction.