No succour in the end,
The scourge becomes history,
"his-story",
Far from gory,
Yet set in dark stones of memory,
His heart, heavey, heavy,a dead-man's chest,
Ardous, daunting, like his mid-semester tests.
Fear grips him, incongrously bogey,
Yet it's not lack of money,
He's heart's wired, plunged in a mire..
Dire consequences, its an unending vortex,
He solemnly hopes for that beyond; the vertex,
Unforthcoming it is, his ego peels off like nail cortex,
Much-maligned, he endures the spite,
Seeking respite,he gets none,
Not even in his favourite bottle of sprite.
He snaps, bewildered by the bogus hocus-pocus,
In soliloquy... "I wont loose focus"..
"I wont be riled,lest I be called puerile",
"I prolly even have more wile and guile".
"So why can't I emerge top-of-the-pile?
"I've been too far too benign o, this is the beginning jo!"
Seeks he for that,
Meek be that heart,
That he may once again shame the coterie minority,
Tame the doubting Thomases,
Besmirch the libellous "anti-JayJs'",
And smirk in mockery at the boomeranged slander,
Feel the ounces once again,
Beset in the weights of love,
Then cloves dried and a-wilting,
Now clovers sprung in three tree-ey branches,
Creepy,eerie,fiery...
Steadfast and undeterred,
Like a hungry retard eager to eat breakfast,
Codein to drain the pain,
That love shall sift through his veins again,
That the raft shall rift no more,
Adrift, bereft of gift,
That SHE be the lift, the albatross,
The opiate and the poison,
The prayer and the curse,
The zenith and the nadir,
The pain, the gain...
JayJ™ © 2009
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