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.

Summer.

Another waste.

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.