Soliloquizes in the solemnness of silence—
Seeking to salvage his soul from stupid silly sounds.
Still and stressed and ‘straught and seamed with stream of
steam,
Sees the sea of sickness that seizes his sickle self,
Surrounded by sorrow and sadness that ceases his fickle
strength
Since he ceased to seize his soul from strutting out its seams—
So it seems his sins were seen by sages before ages or
seasons—
And senses of his smells not what saints should sense,
But his scents were strong and stuffy and smooth and slurry—
And soothe not his strain of suits of sad stench—
But since he served no seeds of selfless sirs,
And only such a servant of soul and self and sanity—
By that he sowed not the safe seed of substance.
And reaped not what he sought for his sons to stock.
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