everyone wants to share in revel and glory...
a flitting passage of time in the mind.
How right you are is an omen of possession,
a sad depiction of what you could be
when wronged in the righting.
Another lifetime in maybe is all I need
to get it right, when it is defined...
For now it's a longshot, a stretch
of filly finishing first.
Here we go again, Pop goes the weasel
in lofty sentiment of a gloomy forgotance...
acceptance in the ways of the world,
your world, fraught with glamorous accolade.
Do no harm, then do as you will...
in hushed darkened corners
and candlelit spectacle unshared,
except in the shorn of abeyance.
In humor I watch your didactions
and dicker around in adrift,
bereft and into the fray...
as once again the clock tower chimes.
To where or when or how...
who cares,
there is no reigning when a gypsy
takes flight into the light
of an uneven conundrum.
The winged ones live a little
when out of the wet cocoon,
shuddering into the mist
of a forgotten tomorrow.
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