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Mourning for an elegy of fortune unreceived,
Mourning for a legacy of destiny deceived;
Like Mozart, too early felled by fickle hand of fate,
Mourning for what they could not comprehend nor consummate;
Stitched in between the times, a momentary suture,
Out of touch with the past, yet still not a part of the future;
Like vampires, not still alive, but merely yet undead,
Their mountains still unclimbed, their stories left unsaid;
Forever on the cusp of expectations unachieved;
Forever on the cusp of what they never could achieve.
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