These flowers, scented roses are Devine,
a white one, red as blood, here is the thorn.
All sung, now loved and stout, this love is true,
from a torn past, like cloth he shall be shorn.
When fortunes’s lost and hope is all that’s left,
when moonscapes cast a dreary eye on life,
when sunlight is a play on future songs,
and he do find that he is less a wife,
He’ll ponder into great and stolen gauze,
and wonder when, if ever smiles did fail,
that to the great and boundless even planes,
did poets ever watch it move and quail?
Would he pretend to hold his heart in joy?
Would he just fake a tear, in laughter’s voice?
His child is gone, she moved into true space,
and he was left with just one bitter choice.
He would arise; his grave would lie bereft,
and god would know his plaintive wrath and hide.
And all the while, while centered on this stage,
he took his time but now he knows his side.
Sincere these words, no truer shall you find,
Not even when in books you seek to know
‘bout increased life and all its ugly charm,
this knowledge is not food for taint to grow.
So seek him out, this wanderer returned,
in distance, travelled he in worn out shoes,
while soulful in the desert he did cry,
beside the fire he sang the lonely blues.