Only the most sophisticated of literati
Would hover over a tome for long enough
To get through or create a work
That could outweigh a small dog
Barking their words between the margins
Smelling what someone else left behind
All in the name of looking down one's nose
Conditional formula for the compass rose
Walking through streets with rather a strut
Closing all day so ideals do stay shut
I look and I think, I do not know
Subjective object, as far as you'll throw
Welling up read into burst of tears
Watching or writing, casting off fears
But understanding is not required
Confusion can live
Even sans certainty
Peacefully give
Roman Ryan 