One long ago day in ages past,
A man sought to create a vision to last.
Something to motivate and inspire others;
Something to share with sisters and brothers.

A sketch in charcoal was deemed too crude,
And too many paintings were simply of nudes.
Perhaps a sculpture, in marble or clay;
But no, he felt he had something to say.

A story or novel would bore some to tears,
And he longed for something to endure for years.
Yet the written word did seem to entice;
Perhaps shorter prose would be just as nice.

So he crafted a poem from words in his heart,
Filled with ideas and morals from the very start.
Magically swift the words flowed from his mind;
Surely this poem would be one of a kind!

Alas, in his arrogance and o'erweeing pride
The man, half finished, set his masterpiece aside.
Intending to finish his great work the next day,
When his mind was fresh, he had so much to say!

On the morrow he woke, refreshed and eager to begin.
But horrors, alas; The ink had flowed from his pen!
Soaking through all of the neatly scripted pages;
Obliterating a masterpiece meant for the ages.

Now he shuffles through life with barely a peep,
Lamenting the masterpiece sacrificed for sleep.

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