Centuries of pseudo intellectualism…
Once a ‘keystone’ man in a feeble suit
blackened of the new words’ soot.
A flower to rejoice, not the root,
what would you call him, else a coot?
For the words are not yours.
Of the one, who did fish
a catch to his own plate.
Share the appetite, not the catch!
For the words are not mine either,
a mere portrayal of sleepwalking ideas,
flowing down channel of fury.
Aided by the jukebox to resound!
To be human, be tamed by words
the profound joys of life,
down the impeccable cliff
in a mystical sea of thought.
Then back to the sleepwalk,
surrenders the experience,
and yet another keystone at the hell’s gate,
playing the unvarying pseudo- intellect again!