Desolate Hours

In weary conflict 'gainst relentless time,

These battles of discourse wage ever on,

Each face a blend of strife and languor met,

In dim-lit squares, where words replace repose.

Passion fades beneath the ceaseless strain,

Mind's fertile fields lie fallow, hope forlorn.

Their eyes a-glare, the promise of rest gone,

Such is the drain when Cyclops faceless turn,

Consuming minutes with insatiable glut,

Till woeful end breaks night in solace lost.