A Letter To My Admirer

Skipping breakfast as late alarm clocks warn,

certainly no appetite to minute sipping, I guess

Should my passion lose its lustre 

there will be no master

nor a perceived pastor

to lead the few,

who rally to salve consciences


While every single cuddle of the cushions

closes a day’s page to open another’s

So within my rugged embrace

and my seeming intellect,

lie an opaque fist

rivalling the traits of the villains,

who trade future academia for youth exuberance



And so, as I walk with my fingers crossed,

I never say my hands are clean

nor do I say that my palms are soiled

but be informed that everyday is but a chance.


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