Ousola wants her poem by the end of the day today,
And I must go to the end of science by the end of the day,
And stare at the picture of the fallen autumnal trees,
And the lightness of the sun in the room,
And reach the end of the freshness of the air
With a cool heart and a hot head.
I must make myself now intelligible to myself,
For the sake of Socrates and the solar system and myself.
So verses come “wave upon wave” as I read them out loud.
Ousola says the limit will be the sky,
And I’m thinking of the “high sea”.
I must stop practising suicide and survive the day.
I must remember the ism in the survivalism of me is my intellect and my academicness, and that alone.
I must keep in mind the loner, the end of the science,
And I must appreciate the art of it,
And the kind person that he was, that he is, that I am.
And that we will together be stopping the wars of distraction
And right now I was feeling dutiful to think that at the end of the day it’s the end of the day.
But I am trying to contest haste and pessimism in general,
In a court of natural laws,
Which I fight.
For instance, as aforementioned, in my mind, the trunks of the trees are horizontal,
And like me, their branches have no leaves,
Unless the doctor’s order.
I’ve noticed when I use my senses to think about what I want to think the whole world changes.
So I must remember the natural lawlessness of my reality.
And, come back and forth to,
And go before the hot-headed monsters of the ward attack.
Though after all there’s a long way to the end of the day,
My eyes have already reached the lightest blue at the background of the reds and the oranges and the yellows of the tableau.
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