Language

I would remember the repetitions,
Of a comedy neglected in five or six declensions;
A quartet of parts and these pernicious words.
Once I saw them splayed over an unruled page…

Someday I would see the sources
That delineated these stochastic courses. 

Poetry is an eternal curse. 

They said we would surpass the peasants
In our comprehension of the fragments of the universe.
But why do I yet wrestle with the variations…

One day I thought that I would while it all away, 
But in this winter full of words that is not how matters play. 
How to acquire learnedness in such persistent loneliness…

Ask me why I carry on in shadows of the bards, 
Why I scamper through their voices, 
And why I pause to ponder the illimitable choices…

In logical procession we are left in shards.