However, poetry to my mind is volatile, ever seeking amendment and change on each new reading

 Having had occasion to glance at it again, I thought let's  try this old thing in a different metric format, and see what happens

. As one can see, it is a departure from my usual iambic tetrameter, embracing pentameter, Alexandrine and dactyl lines alongside the iambic.

Does it work? I have no idea, but at least it was worth a try.

 Fresh uberous crotchets: their disentrancement play
like whispers: of regret’s own peripatetic mind.
What strange ways, they seek transhume their say 
in pleasured days, when love, oft times; bore blind.

Of guilty ploys that many now, seek, to display
in such allusion, nature's hand set forth to bind.
On effable sybarite’s, new foundling kith and kind.

However, there are times, when insolate days appear 
as though perhaps, they too, had meant to stay
with me, through deisolate tension's static fear.
to then discharge their ions in restless mouille.

So I, stroll through lush meadow; o’er sprung, virid lea
to hear,reverbs Allô, by that old aspen tree.
Whose silver leaves, do shimmer with their dured recall
when, those warm summer days of fresh youth, had it all.

Tho’ swear; I still see her, in pandemian’s past array.
Where, mingles there, sweet pleasures, which ne’er quite fade away.

Spelled by pure moment, and digression’s degree:
when ephebe faired red as mind's mistigris
Leaves, in susurrus, are sound's repartee.
where, era’s essence, seals Eros’s own panoply...

Sends out a message that endures long in the mind 
to wander. Where, ere fortunes had elected to find.
The mystery that makes, man travel his path
of shadows set deep in entrapmentsof garth.

For storms are such, that man must now abide 
Its cruel self-creation: that seeks not, set aside.
To feed like locusts, that mind's sorrow knows well 
bereaves, loves lenitive, in barren pittance of hell.

What once was verdant thought, most luxuriously fair
lie stripped of its interest and features life for to share.
To leave in memory's purpose a progress to declare
how fraught was that first journey to those bells of infare

So back through past haughs where pain’s life has etched me;
Retrace, my singlings, from life’s, lone aspen tree.
For as I glance back, with a sad tear to my eye
I see aventurins, in leaves whispered- good-bye.

Mor.