With a burning vengeance, fragile fame, I have wooed you,
Only to find that you tempt, then disappear like morning mist.
More charitable, more lofty pursuits, should have been my quest,
Anything more than the glimmering glory attributed to your wings.
Quicksilver and free-flowing, you have seduced with fair promises,
Only to flee and leave me, your seeker, banished to the dregs of hell.
Be gone from me, oh foolish fame, I need not your false attributes,
Nothing can be gained from the butterfly whisper of your stay.
Leave off and have done, fading fame, as I shall remain here--mired in sameness and comfortable complacency.
I can give you nothing, offer no praise to entice your lingering stay.
I am mortal, burdened with tears of a wretched soul, and entitled to my destiny of mediocrity.
Pass me by, oh fleeting fame,
And onto higher grounds of glory ever soar.
But when your wings are clipped and your tumble to mere earth ensues, find me not beside your grave.
For I have moved on to the mundane art of real life,
And will seek you no more.