In shadows deep where silence weeps,
He found his muse in sorrow’s keep,
A heart that bled on paper white,
Words of darkness, words of light.

Through nights alone and days of pain,
He wandered realms of grief and gain,
In every verse, in every rhyme,
Echoes of a troubled time.

Love unspoken, dreams in flight,
His pen a sword against the night,
A soul laid bare for all to see,
The essence of his poetry.

John Elia, with eyes so deep,
In every word, a secret keep,
A legacy of love and loss,
In every line, a heavy cost.