I read through rhymes
running edges of dried ink
that stained pages taken
from memories nay
mayhaps gained by an insight
of meaningful endeavors and brushes
Of what life do you speak of
O Master of the Poets..
I speak of the many grunts
and designs of the meagre being,
Of watching a sun-bathed sky dyeing
I speak of the distant tongue
torched by a raging whim,
the whim of mankind..
And what may they be
my Master? ? this whim you speak of..
Whims of fancies that run by numbers
and stage a collision with man's
Extracting the wrath
of the hidden and disguising the
masks of the diseased..
'The written exclamation of the