Slain by feigned exuberances,
Damaged dreams and unused chances,
And several worthless hisses…
Lying limp among the shards of reason,
Where against the wall it was smitten
Scholarliness now lacks season,
This is treason, our fingers each bear the crimson.
There is guilt on our consciences,
A dint in the wake of all consciousness
There are traces on the pages of our rigidness
And forensic details on our logical correctness.
Adieu! The death and laying to the sky
Of our novelty friend, knowledge
Who, lying slain on the table of mediocrity,
Is gone too soon!
Nonsopoetic (Gone Too Soon 17/11/14, 09:17am)