His life would be foretold, it's said -
his father trod the boards
and hotel rooms would act instead
of home throughout those tours.
His boyhood years would thus be strained
mid issues that would play
with mother's morphine fix ingrained
while father's craft held sway.
His parents' faiths would, too, collide,
in words that would inflame.
Such turmoil was then later plied
with art that bore his name.
Though school would lend respite, he knew
he needed to feel free.
His urge to lead a life more true
would send him off to sea.
Then six years nearly saw his end,
his world lacked aim and breath.
His vagrancy and drink would send
him to the brink of death.
And, whilst confined, mid ills and woes,
he sought to mend his ways;
a "rebirth" of his life he chose -
a future writing plays.
In realistic style he struck
a nerve, its very core.
His plays, so real and raw, would buck
the farce that went before.
In tragedy of Grecian roots,
his characters were framed
on kinship strife and fierce disputes,
with might he struck and shamed.
Such avant-garde* would rock the scene,
bring culture to the stage.
With masks and poetry supreme,
his works became the rage.
In tragedies he sketched himself
as art would echo mind.
The struggle twixt ideals and pelf*
would always blight mankind.
In "Iceman Cometh," he would paint
a dream of better things,
yet, all the while in hope, a taint
that with deception brings.
Though artistry would fire his zeal,
there lacked a parent's care.
Those dues of home would not appeal,
while stage, his love affair.
But then he lost his will to fight
when illness stilled his pen.
With "long day's journey into night,"
he'd never write again.
His wealth of art would set the pace
to stir, enrich the soul.
His classic input changed the face
of drama's starring role.
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