The College Professor

At a table small and worn, they gather,

An audience captured by worn bar mats, drenched, and torn.

They listen, they hear his voice, raw and weathered,

Each word, a constant criticism, igniting cheers of disgust and outrage.

 

What burdens do you carry?

What sorrows have marked your soul?

Your ambitions and hopes, I will not deny,

Yet your dreams of perfection, they belong to an ideological innocence.

 

Your fantasies float in the golden vessel of your creation,

Crafted with precious stones of desires and wants, it's your gold.

You quench your thirst with water-turned-wine,

Gulping heartily, intoxicating on the nectar of disillusionment.

 

In the corner of the pub, you sing to the chorus of forgetfulness,

The drunks cheer, applaud, embracing the fleeting karaoke of life.

But the song wasn't yours anyway, an echo from an ancient time,

The morning after, your voice drowned in the collective amnesia.

 

This is a tale of shattered ideologies,

Of dreams birthed in purity, corrupted by reality.

It is the story of us, drowned in the wine of our own making,

Singing songs of ancient times, forgotten by dawn.