He
was a piece
of work,

His life a
work of art

He was
a brilliant fool
masquerading as genius

Or, perhaps,
a stellar genius
just acting
the fool

He wore his success
like a stagnant, rotting albatross
around his neck,

its stench his constant
companion and
splendid cologne

His Life Portrait was
surreal,
abstract, askew

Each and every
moment of his moments

upcoming root-canal apprehension

He
was a proverbial
mess

Who constantly,
addictively,
helplessly

sought the problem,
the flaw,
the not-quite-right –

even in Summer’s pale roses

He just
took for granted
that,

even in Heaven

there’s something
terribly off,

The angels’ harps just
a wee bit out of tune

Like I said,
this man
was a colossal mess –