Tipping Tender Traps Tripping Tripe.

When the burst of paper-white
Glares from between the emotionless gaze
Of hard-worded text,
Burning into my tender corneas with the force
Of twenty suns,
My soul barely shivers with careful expenditure,
Expelling strength and resolve
With all the slow purpose of a cow chewing turf.

Oh Lord!, purpose for purpose’s sake!
I have rendered such knowledge as is willing to be consumed
Into the grey linings of my dull’d mind.
Lo, do they resemble scars,
Cold and unfeeling, words and meanings,
Waiting for subtle or direct application,
The will of the pen by my will.
Will Will’s will, will?