Split by the light as I stand on the podium, the lights burn four shadows
that bathe me in orange sodium; and I am to speak to the mass and yet alas
I am mute.
I am the messenger to deliver the meaning, necks are either craned from all four corners; bodies are leaning and, yet I have no horn with which
This solace I cannot gain as I suffer in silence, the crowd turning ugly and soon there may be violence; and I have podium or staged dais fright
The liquid which gives this cunning linguist his succour has abandoned with such vigour; the mutterings turn to twitters as fingers hastily flicker. I am naked
With no one to root.
Turning to look at the people behind me, the orange sodium glow blinds me and my own eyes find me; this is a scene from a bad dream and the point I make
Poems without sense and no literal literary meaning, the pond in which we delve literally teaming; tadpoles squirming in my waters, am I dreaming?