Of a Sweet Jest

In mind, isolated the soul is kept
Ere aurora and dusk, dateless is time
And herein the poet begins his rhyme
Ascertaining words-the dunces hat, capped

In silence he sits, in inertia rapt
As clocks tick away, withering youth's prime
Expressionless face inhales sage and thyme
His Maker, beseeching to intercept-

Weakly, whilst weeping ora pro nobis
To serve Heaven or Hell, he dare not know
In shades of grey, the world murmurs no help

An abyss, for muses to grant a kiss
With claret, his lips to wet with Bordeaux
Of the impenetrable sweet, they jest

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