Unnoticed save for one or two,
The playwright died today.
The tortured soul that no one knew
Was kindly brought away.

A tear was shed for lost paychecks,
A few cried for the plays.
His passing found no less neglect
Than he his final days.

Largely ignored, but in his head,
He felt the aches of age.
A million words were left unsaid
And never found the page.

Dearest playwright, suffer no more
The scoffs and glares of folk.
For the dead are tenfold adored
From in their boxes of oak.