Feverish Pigs

Dizzy gratitude in the laze of noon, Ink parading splendour on sheets of paper, Gone is the beautiful world, Reduced to minute filigree, And hello to grades of redshift ladder, Ascend my passion to prestige, where Lecturers’ preaches are to the deafs, Words come in sleepless thousands, Words within words in disillusion, Oh imagine the look on inspired immortals, Seeing us digging in slavish faints, for No pot of gold. No pursuit of searing passion, Just a piece of paper at the end of the rainbow, Seeds of knowledge to sow, an echoed Numbness in cavernous silence, Our lives a game of chasing tail, Awaiting the end of a sentence. Time’s up. Stop writing.