Abounding,
a new suspicion.
Your history, like the sky's immortal smile in a sunbeam,
but you're not there.
I want you,
you were of the stars, and their pulsing radiance
is what mortal beings bask in, ignorance a final plea.

I search in the vanity of the town's conquests, every time it ever
won your witty reserve - search the gratitude of the folk, I search
their laugh lines for life's thanks
To see if they bettered you, are they worthy?
- some are dull as planks.

© Copyright David Bosworth August 2015