Sour Dour

I scour the pages for 
a reason for sages 
rather than rages. 
Scouring, it turns 
out, causes burns.
I would rather tour
a boorish ignorance
across a fecund second
chance at not knowing
even after the snowing
ideas have ashed out 
my hands. Better than
lashed out, eyes and 
all. I must not scour
the pages. These pulped
flat wrecked angles may
oblique me, but I need
not make their unique
features the topography
of my glands.