The Flux — Sightseer’s Poems

Coming To A Timely Rest — The Summer Drags On Till September Is At The Breast

And now, the ending is clear;

It almost seems so perfect — And time, shan’t just abide me.

The assumptions of a marched—saint;

Brilliant Thy Morn with afters — Almost faint, to assume me.

To know, she is moving clearly on;

I turn to cloak and bless her — Thy perspiring breath;

No tally or folly underneath, That fixture to breathe

The wintered man, peels and stretches his Eyes — no further, does he winge to whine; For all has been halted.

No further-far, he doesn’t wager, As the youngin's play the rooftops —

Eyes don’t allow for that debt, To wager and topple his heart anymore —

No tally or folly underneath, That fixture to that —

Circles the eyes dark, And brooding —

Coming all to stage it — the days to abode the abidance, Never without its own queer hindrance.

Regardless of the tempered ones —

There will always be the ones in flux —

To constrain and stretch the ideals for imaginations and ideas —

Coming to a timely rest — the summer drags on till september is at the breast; when to wive, she can hardly beset.

I’m sure you knew —

The actors are best besotted —

I wondered if he continues to fragrantly dream;

Gladly, I hope he does. If the word is out —

I can rest just like him — All the same; for some are.

‘Twill array the flux, coming away —

Such brilliant boasters;

Tripartite cows my bronze booming,

Of lighting flares and cooling downs —

As a roundel of faired courses comes,

Just down for her;

In this roundel room, she rests to retire —

There she goes away from me,

Flaring in the smoothing grief,

Disquieting me to that fever, as she leaves —

Fluxing frow, stitching the fringe,

That bides the precious ring.

Solarity bathed in deepening rosin —

I am, hallowed but bared to thy nature;

Love — love, she goes further-far from me,

And I to remain forlorn and awaiting

Her call —I’m waiting, to hear her calling me.

Nary will it happen for the hope has gone,

Abiding me by and by.

I remain alone now,

To this room, of Orange conjectures —

Bronzed lighting — plastic screens and emptied notebooks in lunges and lounges.

Yet I can never really tell, all about her;

And that, my only friend,

I’m glad.

So glad.

So glad for her.

Now.

Now.

Now.

Hush my lights —

Hush my bounces —

Hush my tricks —

Hush my lips —

Now.

Now;

My love.

Thy precious hope.

Now.

Now.

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