Her body was that of a wizened crone,
her enfeebled mind was that of a child.
Playfully, she skipped and jumped rope, and shone,
but only in her confused dreams of wild.
Her drear some days softened by her tone,
she mumbled of lost love, and her eyes smiled.
Time and age had drained her of consciousness,
stealing the current surroundings from her
and replacing them with the obtuseness
known only by those who soon become her.
She sits and thinks with laboriousness
until she succumbs and the drugs numb her.
Takes it a powerful, almighty congerie of the
Most toilsome and rigorous lucubration,
To write these, my poems...my poetries.
Or, insofar as declaring, do I
Attempt thus to prevaricate?
Is my literary legerdemain
And poetic prestidigitation and prognostication such that it
Requires little duty, less laboriousness, and a
Far lesser sort of toilsomeness to compose this,
My poetry?
This be the forty-fourth poetic work by my hand enwritten
In this hebdomadal period-
This week, in short.
Yes, in something lesser than a hebdomadal span, even
Did I complete, thus far,
This three-notebooked writing.
Quotidian was this writing and diurnal,
And hodiernally I can write little of the quondam poems:
Written in such a fervorous, blazing, blurring manner,
That I scarce am sure I canst rightly recall the composition of a solitary one.
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