An inundation of possibility.
The idea of further ideas,
A desperate chance at ascension,
For the all-too-aware fool.
Bony limbs grasping up from the shadow,
Latching onto the blissful face,
Of this apparent erudite,
Positing a dilemma; Why?
That word, an infection into the canal,
Crawling at pace to reach the cavern of cultivation.
Discovering lush growth, arborescence beyond imagination!
Every fruit from a branch, from a trunk, from a root.
An impatient, darting tongue follows through,
With now incessant questions, successively desiccating every fruit,
Draining every drop onto the dishonourable discerner.
Gnawing at the edge of the mind, for this sweet nectar of knowing.
Until suddenly, inexplicably, the fruit appear wilting,
The xylem seemingly run dry.
Within that tense vice grip of pleading,
Nothing novel remained.
That demanding dilettante, recoiling its head,
Unfurling at the slow realisation, there is nothing more.
Detaching with disgust for the dryness of this mind.
No purpose staying; nothing left.
But, amidst that desperate desire to move beyond,
Was always the reminder of that bountiful, blissful, bastard,
That didn’t deserve such discarding.
And so, a quick return to compensate,
With a word, not of knowledge, but a simple, “thanks.”