The apex dreads of my chic pengician
begins with the lofty price of booklets
then to the damaged quad table-legs
Still unrepaired by my devoid purse.
My crafts remains a progenitor of art
as i mould under the silent fragrance
But my thumb got fanged by whitlow
My fingers then fall flat on blind trance
When the immortality of my sun dies
And my stars fall behind the fat clouds
Then failure will trample upon my feet
For illumination fuels the human mind.
I would have hurled my choky dooms
But prodigious are this tense hurdles.
I can sacrifice my voice to colds of space
If i will be loose to soar aloft this hurdles