His carefree child would start to pale
when illness gravely stilled.
His father then would rant and rail
in mocking words that chilled.
Those feuds would play upon his mind
and scar his boyhood days.
With mismatched parents he would find
much scope for later plays.
So, as time passed, he'd disengage,
retreat from father's ire.
Those barbs so sharp from drunken rage
would fuel artistic fire.
While woes of love he sadly bore
and labour failed to thrill,
'twould take another decade more
for time to gift his skill.
His thirties, thus, would see his rise
to reach that starry crest.
With plays acclaimed, he won his prize
to be among the best.
In Glass Menagerie* he found
a subject for his part:
his sister who, with mind unsound,
would stir the playwright's art.
In other works there would appear
more scenes of woe and strife:
in Cat* and Streetcar* ever clear
that art would echo life.
For in this author's youth had hung
those taunts that triggered pain;
his father fired gay shots that stung,
infused those jibes with shame.
And, though his fruits were reaped at last,
his private sphere grew dark.
With drink and drugs to veil his past,
he lost his muse's spark.
His artistry would start to wane
from vibrancy he'd known
and, though he battled to abstain,
his demons still had grown.
As curtain fell, his spirit cleft,
he lost his final fight
but, mid his foes of life, he left
a dazzling light so bright.
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