Puny Tom prefers silence over profuse speech to tell,
his eloquent reticence has his own enigmatic fare.
Minotaur of melancholy rampages inside the psychic lair he dwell,
the secret of his sadness are solitude and despair.
Smirk of serenity he wore hid the scowl of sheer agitation he felt,
still the seed of hope sprouts in him like spring in sunbelt.