Another tide flows in, another moon
spins silver gossamer upon soft ground,
another droplet of spaced-time too soon
its home within eternity has found.
Soul's song has lost strong s[pr]ing.  None shall resound
as midnight breasts twelve steps that lead to noon,
can chart the sentiments still heart astound,
to tint mad March with tenderness of June.
Yet still this spirit restlessly repines,
though fane would flower from its pain cocoon,
to span star-spangled sky, scan far for signs
which one day rich say she may grant my boon.
If Truth be Beauty, of a truth these lines
shall sparkle where Life’s fair reflection shines...
Dream's haze obeys the tidal ebb and flow
that Luna excercises as its pull
draws, opens, curtains here, there seeds may sow
to catalyze reflections to the full.
Filters fail to stem prismatic streams
whose waves save inklings hiding from dawn's light,
strange how both fragile and eternal themes
link this world to its parellels, unite
base terran trace to hidden face whose spells
spin cause into effect, direct our play,
whose influence spans last gasp, first farewells,
chance dance, phrase phases, catchwor[l|d roundelay.
Alarm bells ring to spring this song from sleep
as sun peeps past horizon, robins cheep...