Crashbox

So enthused, so intense
Trying to straddle every fence
Often making little sense
Alone with nary a defense

Books unsteady beneath his arm
Crooked hair and glasses charm
Gasping out a lengthy yarn
Still gangly-legged from the farm

Wrapping up his world so tight
Squinting in the heady light
Sure that this is all so right
Accepting all without a fight

On he sprints from books to words
Always returning for seconds and thirds
Spoon growing cold in rotten curds
Forgetting even the friendly birds

And now so tired, thudding fall
Trudging down the classroom hall
The liquor leaves an unhealthy pall
Bangs his head against the wall

At last gazing at ceiling bare
A taped-off smoke-detector stare
Dawning creeps stealthy through the air
'Not yet. No. Not there.'

Ash flies on the breeze of a morning new
Sprinkled with diamond drops of dew
Withdrawn now among the few
Beginning to see what he has to do

Forgotten books, coffee cold
No more running to teachers old
Quiet, but now in queries bold
Resting only in the Lord, I'm told...