Glory thy bloom apart,
‘Cross the misty morning moon,
Satiny Satan said saturnalia,
She waited there juxtaposed,
Like a seed of caraway,
Shall who fly it faraway?
Is it the wind that drowns the ship,
and saves the barge?
Or is it the rake that sweeps the bolder leaves apart?
Seeds of gold lay watchful,
beneath her bony boughs…
I wonder what shall seep through her.
The strictest of them all..
I know ‘tis her pacific calm at work,
That drew the wishing stars here,
Flickering lamps quiz themselves,
What commanded them the way?!
Alas! That they lack the sight,
And thence shall they never see,
The prickly path ‘twill ever be,
That her allure is omni,
A dearth of thousand souls is she,
She isn’t whole; penultimate is she,
I know I shall bury mine twice,
‘Coz she knows too, there wouldn’t be a thrice…
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