light flares and paper burns crisply,
leafy contents send acrid smoke trailing lazily skyward
and contentment swells starved lungs denied their usual fill,
long hours spent in demeaning wait,
in straight shoulder-back seated pose,
book of sonnets upon my lap,
mind screaming for release,
this world of seemingly needful empty hands
stretched out in greedy longing
so that lackluster days might continue on
through to life's end, does not suit me.
i do not belong amongst this lot,
i will not refrain from striving toward glory.
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