A litany of ink weeps down the page,
staccato glyphs, guerrilla rain that slips
in fractal splashes from a prophet’s lips –
disjointed dogma from a bygone age.
What cold intelligence can hope to gauge
the slightest nuance from spasmodic drips?
What man can quench a thirst with tiny sips?
What pain can homeopathy assuage?
With perseverance, meaning yet emerges –
the blocks fall into place, the message clear:
A verse for sombre, elegiac dirges,
but frankly good for little else, my dear.
You are the resurrection and the life?
Of course you are – and I’m the Thane of Fife.