Though the grass is burnt and gone and bees have wendt their way
Ideas in simple sentences have wrought their will to stay,
That axioms in paradigm have fled the room as wind
Since vacuumed words of ruefulness gave causal to rescind.

Yet, though the grass is burnt and gone futility took flight
Where those engaged in conversation, fled into the night,
Gone to leave us well adrift upon a mirthless sea
Where, but for motes of condescension, thee and I would be?

Grass is burnt, now sadly gone, skylarks sing no more
Our stage resounds in silence, due the absence from the floor,
Perpetration whispers soft and echoes to the still
And dryness blows encirclement, eternally, until.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ