Please, to whomever is holding this
Don’t be concerned
In angst-prime
I am spurred from deceit
Of hours spent under a fluorescent glow
And transcribed by way of indigo
Am I here to lament a fallen future that my producer is so keen on?
Here to recite a limerick, cheekily rhyming and miraculously
Drawing a purpose
Or a haiku from an oddly Western mind
Who has no more drank words than the bearer has put mind to metaphysics
And finds terza rima obscene
Latin is rotting and Greek in isolation
I feel I have little purpose on this page
Besides reaching out a naïve hand
And wishing with all my might
That someone will reach back