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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s