Micro Thoughts

Truly, when lusting for some clever ode
The soul is sometimes sore afflicted
And so will not locate genius mode,
Until tranquility is inflicted,
Or equilibrium...reestablished,
So distraction's torture is diminished,
And only then will some great wit be dished
To be honored by being micro-fiched
Or cased in scriptoria's golden frame,
Or chopped into data's minimal dots
For gratification by delayed fame
As when a renaissance restores old thoughts
Percolating within a data farm
Devoid of any bookbinder's charm.