The Amazing Stolen Shot of a Ribcage in Distress

(Diagnosis: Over reaction to seven cups of coffee on Christmas Day)

Vanities of all vanities, in vain profanity
Curse is the idle mentality of its stubborn duplicity
A duel to a mile, as cruel as the Nile
With utmost desire to shun what is vile

In a populace of wise counsel, learning faster than a camel
A collage of gray and leather, has left the soul to wander
The ancient recipe of life’s mediocrity
Has transformed pity to a romantic atrocity

Maybe now, Maybe then, surely it could also be
A matter of honesty to prove that which is fallacy
A sand or a stone, could both be your tomb
Either of whom, you leave your mother’s womb

Climbing your Everest with only a vest on your chest
Rewriting the questions of your difficult quest
Hypodermic and losing eyesight within hindsight
A chill on your opposite right has left you dead tight

Crave for the fellow who wears your old yellow
Ask for the scaffold that held your feet low
Beside a building of miniature gambling
Is an ugly duckling that ate your spoiled dumpling

Oh laughter must end where letters could bend
With words you could lend when you could not pretend
That your bed is not fit to replace a thousand bulbs lit
When your eyes are knit to the place where you sit and eat

Never again will I take much caffeine
More than the drain that my friend has taken
So I would not write again, about a called curtain
Now I travel on a sleepy train, with this last word written 11:16