Sates No More
Poem
Published on December 26, 2020
Sates No More
Poem
Sates me no more, works of this age,
The frantic middling concerns so puny
Forever panicking with baggage of worry,
The sole fevered poise it can envisage.
Such dull coinage are now minted
Smelting ore from bowels of mediocrity
Cast into moulds of mind’s eccentricity
The plodding shapes all convoluted.
To a better age Thou must transport me,
One which keeps me by Thee ideally!