in parentheses

I see you man, your words are old and tired, and your books are green-leaved and barren, I see you man, shuffling your faltering body to the bench a respite for the lost moments near age’s end, and a breath to recapture the lost passage of time and some words now smoldered into air, I see you man, your time is petulant, and your desire is grave: to bring back the fire from its place across the sea, that whiteness blanches your days with a scattershot of memories where only failure lives that a life-pouring of blood and ink has given you what you see everyday: a blank page that a life wandering a dream’s bloodtrail has left you awaiting a departure from the shots of a youth wasted a man dated and a rustic fated for the loneliness of no more words

And the man speaks: despise the words, strife and tears, fury and dissolution, and barren blood, if it were given me the keys of time I would fall into my mother’s bosom and strike out all the vanity, despise the words