An Exercise Poem by robert dickerson

Rumors reach my ears that you are cruel
and understand the damage that you do
that countless sleepless nights to you accrue
and many stand in line to play your fool.
Some have compared you to the pitcher plant
that, horn unfurling, reeks a wild perfume
whose naphthas then bewitch the hapless ant
that knowledgeably trudges down to doom.
Some have even talked of curious cases
that wander witless, hollow-eyed and dumb:
blind as though from staring at the sun,
despondency the feature of their faces
But what of this is fact and what is fiction
hardly helps the depth of my affliction.