Too awake to sleep,

Too tired to move,

A masterpiece of ambivalence,

Belongs in the Louvre.

Buried, in a closet, under bric a brac and stationery

And weight and loathing and hate and masonry.

The militant caretaker diligently taking care

To bury himself in work and leave it decaying in there.

Too sharp to shut it out,

Too backwards to go far,

Without too much a doubt,

An apathetic objet d’art.

Framed, and tightly packed, lickety-split on a rickety boat,

Pounded against waves of a confounded, primordial sea,

Interrupts the endless, tedious water where it floats,

On an ocean of baseless, hypocritical morality.

Too despairing for plans,

Too reasoned to be hopeless,

As a work that is bland,

It is life’s magnum opus.

Washed up on shore; hope no more to be truly seen - obscene!

No artist impression can capture the canvas of depression,

Lost in paradise, under nature’s empty blue and unruly green,

Known to all the land the digits on one hand a work of pure obsession.