The Disrobing of Pretense

I must quit

this school of sham,

this lofty institute
of enlightened professors

who walk into walls,

of spectacled scholars

who quote empty texts,

of illumined souls

who drop salt into wounds,

of brilliant minds
that refuse to ask questions.
I must quit
these dried-up reservoirs

of stale sentiment

who pride themselves on “love” . . .

a sickly, insipid love

as expansive as

a shallow grave,

a love which does not care to know

the other,
a love shrunken by mediocrity,
fed by complacency,
propped blithely on the bed of its own merits --
a love which simply
cannot be.