Epitaph for a Wasted Soul

Write for me a story about spring
Because I am sick of December
Compose for me and sing
But don’t make me remember
Rhyme for me a verse about hope
Because I’m sick of death
Paint for me and cope
But don’t count on my breath

Life is short and ends with a grave
I’ll waste it away and then they’ll say:
Woe is he, one who slaved each day
He would not live, now he’ll decay
So now, all; let us bow and pray
For the soul who always craved love
But was unfortunately gay
And his stone, forever dismay
Reflecting his life, endless fray
How dare he, to pursue it all
To etch his dreams, he had the gall
How dare he, to love and be bold
To etch his dreams, while sleeping cold