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"My peers, lately, have found companionship through means of intoxication - it makes them sociable. I, however, cannot force myself to use drugs to cheat on my loneliness - it is all that I have - and when the drugs and alcohol dissipate, will be all that my peers have as well." - Franz Kafka

Oh how he suffered,

What worldy view of disdain he carried.

How he mingled along with death. 

And day by day his solitary confinment

Towards the end of his life,

Concludes his culpable minds wish.

A wish wrought on by despair

Recorded in a diary of meloncholy.

Reinforced by the shortfall of kindred.

Never a deity to venerate, 

Not even to regard his predecessor,

Or to convey him in the slightest esteem.

But what animosity a father held for his son. 

To deny him of verve in literary passion. 

How he would castigate his heir's avocation. 

How absurd he thought his ferver,

What good can befall to a bard?

Why choose to abate to less than that of a man,

One who by most conduct must support a family?

Few can only imagine the enmity he felt,

Following the lash of a sire's hand,

Impelled upon the apex of his head. 

But what of the vices? 

What of the release of anger,

Or of his contorted esteem?

How could he try continue

Not with out trying to nourish in debauchery,

Avoid nursing satiated in alcohol?

Or rather give way to depravity. 

How cleverly can a man elude a substance,

And yet still deny the classic criterion of others? 

But alas the growing metamorphosis

The rise from adolescence to adulthood,

Served as the means by which desire grew. 

One by which vice is formed.

However it may change and transform, 

However form love will take,

However predilection travels. 

At most every tormented soul,

Along with the average settler,

Will find tenderness and gentleness,

To encompass them. 

But in spite of his aspiration,

Along with his pensive allure,

Accompanied by a solemn charm. 

Was all but customary to his leachorous way.

Ultimately he would debase himself,

Become slave to copulation.

Lewd was the man who frequented brothels,

Lonely was he who sought bawdy entertainment. 

Woe to his heartache but cleft him from the fault,

Lest he coil back into a demise.

Lest he never find a true spouse.

Scant were the lovers he came to suitor,

Few times he came across betrothed to her.

Preffering to exchange handwritten letters,

Sent with temperate affection.

Perhaps He was of moderate demanor,

Possibly bashful towards himself. 

However the situation,

Almost united in cherished matrimony,

A story of half loves and halfed affiances,

Chronicle his gaietys.

So he may never rejoice,

Never be competent to endure exult.

Meagerly able to enjoy his own write,

Almost always liable to play care taker,

Basically pledged to care for a obscure intruder.

Dimished freedom miles away,

Supplemented by a job bound by consortium,

What time gives way to repose over and over again?

What virtue does a time to unwind represent?

In a society more focused on the thought of elusive capital,

Than to the revitalization of the vigor that fuels the mind?

And in any case,

Leads more to illness than a stimulating euphoria.

Oh how he worried he warned,

Vocal about his foibles in pen and paper. 

Uncertain of his mental prowess,

Uneased for the trial by his peers,

Not apt for the conference of social endeavors.

Such is a life that is marked and plauged,

By an effigy destined to lapse by weak stilts,

Contrived by architects forcing altercation amongst themselves.

Although badly designed the structure of his strengths,

Most miscue brought on by the artist,

Is the failure to decalre ones own self at any given time.

When god engendered man,

Did man beget god as well?

How did the tides propegate his worship?

But more importantly what made his skepticism more prevalent?

The notion is that not even he knows.

He fall idiosyncratic to characterisitcs,

Laying incognito to even his whim.

Faith based folklore are what the words fall to be.

To him iconoclasts are with out reason,

But also men of the cloth have no purpose.

Not able to decide whether or not to be pendulous or suspended in air,

choosing to be secular while still trapped in limbo.

A mind set forth by uncertainty and decay,

Unable to appoint even in literature where his influences may reside. 

How the irony was cruel to you, 

Sick first in mind and than in body. 

A life dappled by inadequate composure,

Such is the way of many tortured artist.

Similar to how the sun affects everyone,

Only for bright minds to fend off the rays.

To slowly whither alone and isolated,

Much like man's best friend will find a lonley isle of its own,

To minimize the impact of the Earth's loss. 

How even more ironic Kafka.

Your name bestowed to you by a father like figure,

So that he may denounce your works.

So that he may dominate you with a towering rage.

Your body obsessed and full

With the left over perceptions from younger days,

Possibly to avoid destitute lovers,

More to say your vice was not of a violent one but of a depraved one.

Your legacy not continued in any way,

No son or daughter nor heir to your desolate throne,

No lover to escort you to through unfufilled memoirs. 

None able to guide you as Charon will guide you to The River Styks.

Your time eludes you as passing through your fingertips,

What time did you have to write and publish?

What words unspoken or works unfinished lay about in the fire?

And although you never felt at home were they worth caring for?

Your esteem lower than any sea trench,

Time spent socialising mostly masked by underlying thoughts,

All of the tools were at your disposal for a charasmatic life,

But unable to be used for your mind ceased the knowledge to use them.

Your identity undecided,

Uknowing of how to better controll your fate,

Lost in how to identify what your thoughts provoked,

But the only close idea of religion to you became politics.

Alone and anxious,

Died by the hand of god or nature or however you may see fit.

But now,

As you are considerd one of the greatest literary artist of time,

Only so few can aspire to have your skill,

To have a passion for writing as you did.

A select few write prayers as you did,

But none will have lived the life you've known.

None will ever be able to aquire your skill,

As you lived as your religion dictates, 

A martyr in modern times.