Inkling
Tell me, o dilettantes,
And august savants,
Of your natural urge,
And not so this purge
Which in itself, after all
Hides thy vanity, a pall
Writing, believing that on the looms of time,
You will cogitate beyond this mortal crime.
Wherefore thou discerns progress,
From sage duress to wickedness.
There are many, among those,
Whose musings on paper propose,
To either define the world,
Or themselves, hurled,
Into a mass of such language,
For which they claim to engage,
Believing to judge by inception and intuition,
Rather than form, substance and conception.
Disharmony, injustice, religion, chance,
Naivete: innocence in innocent parlance.
Is this really the drink,
These claims to think,
Or flights of fancy gain'd,
By thy lungs' hope stain'd?
[...] Read more
poem by Lucius Sulla
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