If I had a mindful, thinking mind
I’d know the feeling, analyzing,
Thought-processing, wakeful mem’ry-find.
I’d not wonder, in drooling hazing,
What that tragedy, Algernon, had
And if rodentia enjoy mazing.
Instead, here stands a gray-matter man.
His name is Mental Impasse, of course.
There’s his face-glare; there his stoic stand.
I kneel in abject, absent pleading;
Begging him, my boot-toed gatekeeper
For a whiff, glance; or head-bump reading.
But Mental Impasse will not be swayed,
Will not glance down, nor favor bribings.
How then, will mindflow artworks be made?
Expressionless, he stiffly guards me:
Shadowed thought-lights dance beyond his frame.
My feeble entreats shan’t make him see.