They die painted with the shame of lethargy
And "ill use of time" writes the words of their grave.
Rotting beneath, honoured only by family,
And no single opus to match with their name.
One day they'll be known by no one who lives
And moments ahead, their preserved thoughts will follow.
Laugh at the ambitious with no work to give,
Whose goals fall victim to the void that swallows.
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