This is an eerie time
To make a living out of turning words into numbers
The parable of the sower cannot save you
And you try to save yourself by turning words into gold
I don’t know how I could sleep-
Oppression reigned my night;
Trains of onerous thoughts trampled
My mind, squeaking against
There was a cockroach, struggling
To survive on Christmas night,
Away from its hidden nook, naked to all,
Out into the unknown, for just a nibble;
I shall not be far away,
From the lapping sea gently calling me;
My heart is sinking
Before the hustling crowd
Whose words are heavy
As their sights are loud.
I met Cupid the other day
Lounging alone in the tranquil park,
By the lively lake, on the soft-thatched clay,
Where love was vowed in lay by faithful larks.
Why have you been so cold, consuming Life,
That has swallowed my youth in scathing Strife
For nothing- you motley, wild clay,
Have you ever sat out a sinless day?
Must I sing my prayers as I was taught,
While blatant atheists are never caught?
Fie, fie, hark how those obstreperous feasts
Abuse the decent night, where bloodshot men
Many a night I ask the stars on high,
For whom a sylph aloft like thee would fall.
They neither crawl away nor draw on nigh,
Seeming not care to heed my plea at all.