The slumberous man awoke,
For he had been provoked,
He sat and brooded,
Brooded sad and morose,
With the stature of the sulking sapien
And countenance of a wounded horse
He nursed a secret passion,
Of being a man irked to reality,
But reality was too acrid
he couldn't bear all the commotion.
His sagacity still taunted him,
asked him to abandon the forlorn
Asked him to rid the sluggish slumber
Interpose all pricks and thorns.
His sleep had lasted long enough,
But he was still blind in an eye,
He knew his muse was leaving him,
But he couldn't bid his goodbyes.
Such is the poison of languor
It's virility murders all might,
A man comes who from the reputation on a Heathcliff,
ends up in Sydney Carton's plight.
Still nothing erred him,
Nothing that went far and beyond,
The prudish thoughts still reigned him,
And the prudery became his abode.
He had effaced in his sleep,
Ensconced in the paradise of dreams,
Fantasy became the end of this man,
And of many men,
after and before.
