It mocks me,
Eyes colder than liquid nitrogen,
Nothing left kindled in its stare;
I grow tired of standing on the shoulders of men
Who turned out to be dwarfs and not giants,
On tiptoes, buoyed by significant correlations,
I turn a sharp monotone of phrase
But cannot reach, cannot breach at
All, just to see the face of the one
Who brings me no peace,
Just pieces and particles that bear no names,
The type of work that drives on me,
Inspires madness and sadness and laughter,
The sound of spinning and grinding
And cutting and binding
Me.
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