By Vincent Valentine

Writing at the escritoire the mind slow and slightly inept,

The eyelids heavy and cumbersome

Demanding becomes it to find a written subsequent concept

Ponder, ponder, ponder, contemplation is a burden

And the psyche enters an intensely surreal condition

For one thing, one thing only doth me intrigue:

‘Tis the weariness of fatigue

Its effects are intended to drain