always dreaming of the mad professor
she drank wine from a beaker and lit cigarettes on the bunsen
but nothing could attract his eyes from the chalkboard
kept up late at night by the constant question,
the constant; so sly & disguised, hiding among variables,
numbers sought after in the quest for purpose, meaning and explanation
tripping formulas and standing equations
a dose of adrenalin, snippet of rose petal
and the burn’d carbon of loveletters once held value
now mix and form a lethal compound
blowing off steam as winter’s bug bites,
professor’s own concoction forms a remedy
for rested sleep,
and nestled deep
within his theories
and to one day understand
to lay to rest the quarrelsome spirit of insight
so that they both can drink wine from beakers
and light cigarettes off the bunsen