It’s true to say we ruminate,
to perhaps even cantillate
despite its false allegiant thought
on all those things, we seek to hate.
However such, it should not be,
if we by somewhat wish be free,
to take a lesser vitiated path.
Free from our self-catoptric scene.
To walk there in life’s wildwood glade,
see hyacinth bloom blue in its shade.
While high above a winged chanteuse,
pours out its euphony unseen,
in melodies of untroubled note
to change such concept of our rote.
So that we may so, meld our laugh,
to those travails;
That ploy our lone, tenebrific path,
with their infelicity of thought’s
pertinacity that ails.
For yet, one simple act is all it takes,
to find such love another so awakes.
To touch our own symphonic soul,
with words its amative sense extol,
in tantric steps of thought.