My time in the sanctuaries of despondence drifts,
And the question that guards elucidations of fate,
Is running fast, but is running late.
Twenty one semicolons, and two silent periods,
Envelope this ensemble of mistaken myriads,
Invariably they send me a bouquet of lies,
My obdurate will my obdurate will defies
They yell out perfectly embellished taunts,
And scratch the surface of the past that daunts,
Lies upon lies built on embankments of trust,
But I shan’t break this mould, even if I must
Because in this mould I was died and cast,
And yes, sometimes I’m left alone and aghast,
But these twenty one semicolons recapitulate the fable,
Of how she struggled as he put bread on the table
And though life’s ocean may seem rhetorically calm,
But their bones still need my gratitude’s balm,
So I can’t refuse to pay the responsible debt,
And that I will, is the safest bet.
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