Wednesday, March 16, 2005


The Supercilious Sorcerer

The night slithers along so agonisingly slowly
And so I burst impetuously upon conversation
With the boy beside me.
He is a pedagogue, draped in florid
Wreathes of knowledge

A supercilious sorcerer. My ignorance
Appals him. Our conversation is sluggish
With the odd jagged edge
I don’t think you like me, I said
Our discussion is a wintry scene

Ridden with ravens. Ice coats the river
As pure as a premonition
Imprisoning last summer’s foliage
And to shelter from his superciliousness
I plunge into that ebony lagoon

And insensible and beyond reason
I escape his overcast intellect.


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