The Quarry Poem by Job Laz

Upon this fallow ground
I seek my lot
The call to my shimmering mind
A haven of my unquiet rouse,
With tears acrid like magma
I purged my putrid tact
Closing against their face the will of my fist,
With words they made me
And a god of witticism I became,
Like oil I glided through the oversight of their ink
To become the spite of many,
Like runner I dashed with focus
To beat my rivals to shame,
In their thousands they came hurling forth
The ills cheered in imbecility,
But with less brace I expounded the lump
Simmering down their belly,
Inaptly their keen eyes feasted with no respite
On my inane works
Fostering the boils borne in the face of greed
With the weight of their clicks
They entombed the laurels won in glory,
Mocking the very being of my birth
Yet from the contours of fate
They peeped to behold the aura of applause built in the span my rise.