Follow me not, for nor can you
find these flowers of an unborn Spring;
for dancers append to the Earthly hue
the lights of lingering, of passionate tu’s.
Cast me out, should you need to,
for in my own heart have I left this confused
mockery of light, where toes touch due
cullings of spirit, the brightness perfused.
In time it may pass, the bravoed charade,
though the last encore simmers, glowing passade
still in the skies, minds, and ties
to these fetters, druthers in mourning song
as I sing to the praises of the coming moon
the coming comes lastly, the summing too soon.