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.
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