When time allows a peaceful hand to flourish; to give rise
to open blooms and greatest
In purity, as in song, a delighted demeanour makes hence
a clouded frailty so distressed and
There should be no escape from such a temptress – such an
everlasting unblemished repository of angel dust
gone grey
So held by imps and wizards and wisened fools in jester
cloth.  Am I the foolish thinker, the
No thought then beyond the unfettered truths drawn taut
upon a crescent face within the
I beg of you now in this clear meadow to bring subjective
cause within the cynics domain and, please, cease
the chattering