Spring hath taken my delight
Though its subtle creeping was known
Its appearance quickly reigned.
Boredom now haunts the outskirts of my thoughts
Threatening my worldly stores
of things bought through my toils in hardship.
I beg of thee
Bearer of Time
Make not eternity what should ephemeral be.
Rancor, perilously close to surfacing.
The bowels of darkness in which it thrives
constantly in hovels of dank, ill smelling slough
that floods its chambers.
THAT is what 'spring' is to me.
Nothing more than waste
To what could be the last,
I see of a certain lover's soul
All because of lazy students
Who's Asses must be mounted
Against walls bearing their names.
T'were it not for my leaving
It would be spoken of here as well.
Pray thee tell,
to whom might all theses wastes of time,
be of benefit to?
I say: popularity hierarchies
To hell with them.
The dumb illiterate prosper now
But t'is always to be expected and t'is always,
The outcasts who run the world.