To be blind the scholar’s fate
A polymath now, a Polyphemus later
During satyr ages that unmixed wine taker was made glad of undeafness.
Hard-ridden eyes in greyness rise, that is age’s tithe.
Yon Cannot Scribe who being blind made callous
Upbraids his wife who as maiden he praised, now appraised his typist
A timely bucket placed such to catch what elevated phrase
He might deign to displace.
The stained fireplace, his place
The bilebite he exudes; his milewide moods whiten moonlike a room.
Nothing mooneyed remains to this jaded waif, her lot is to take.
“Beloved, arise. Dictation take.”
At any time of night.
Milton prating filterless, loathing the crutch of rhyme;
The man who builds a building without wood, nail or lime.
Alchemisland 
Leave a comment