ZEITGEIST — The Present Era

Modern men cannot compete with modern engine, yup, I had
Tried to step backwards down to the dust of ancient men,
To have the dereliction through the dysfunction of backlash.
But I find it too traverse to walk on the medieval imprints,
And the modes of competition.

Modern man is perfect in tour d’ivoire,
There he must continue to be: to create castles in the air,
And to enjoy dreaming in a la-la land.
Race with the civilization of an ancient past,
Could be absolutely fatal, I must assert it!

For why, I have gauged the hyper of a modern engine
And modern man. I had tried it somewhere in the past,
To reverse the sprockets of cycle, found it too perilous
To chase by the modern wheels.

Therefore, reflect penetratingly over the matter, then tread,
Or, I cannot blame all, it could be something else rather:
The syndrome in one’s own fibre, can make one selfish,
Pessimistic. Perhaps I have…, by medication.

You must have it, in some corner of the globe,
Away from the people,
Cause, I don’t want to trammel your progress
By my own nude experience.

Perchance, thou shalt descry rainbows in the canopy of
The firmament, discriminated from me: pale and crimsoned,
Casts always a peculiar eye to me.
Still, you should give it a try, in a corner of village,
But don’t be vulnerable to any ravenous cormorant creature,
Venomous tooths, ever in lurk to pierce: gobble up the fragile.

Totally be invincible and look! What’s there for you.
Forwhy, always Omniscient: The Supremo, to whom
I owe genuinely all t’is narrative and the noble ink.
Have proportioned a share for every soul.

Come forward and slice off your square, or, in trapezoid:
Yes, it could be an ingenious and subtle all abreast,
Have its taste, strike the tongue hard, against the palate, relish!
And telltale, what does it say? I have no right to intervene,
Nay, nay, for I’m not trying to assert my faux providence
Onto you, through dovetail or via the curtailing methods.
Comfortable. Then step fore and burst down thy narrative.

Ah! art thou a reserving sort?
For now, don’t be, hither! I guarantee you:
You won’t be able to afford its weight all alone.
Perhaps, might metamorphose the promulgated standpoint,
That I have catapulted among the population.

Flames swiftly, hurl the pain of impotency
In the current line of zeitgeist,
That no alchemists’ alchemy, have resolved yet.
All right, don’t stare, don’t rip the pages apart, have patience!
Okay! pause for a moment: it’s called a caesura in poetry.

Hydrate thy calibre with the profuse amount of mineral water,
Calm down thine perplexed station, by the glass of cold milk,
Full of kernels: dates and almonds: the marmalade of paradise.
A glass of yellow lemonade with a slice of pineapple suspended:
The drink shall enhance thy flavour: thy vistas to far-off horizons,
Then drill again, you would estimate the flood of scribed lines.