It’s not something meant to keep,
Like a flower pressed the colours seep.
However close — becoming less palpable when scorned,
Originally palpable in mind — now a crown thorned.
Hence now his soul softly weeps,
While all else in the city sleeps.

Broken down like a clock in dismay,
Gears stopped and springs in disarray.
A clock-makers hands work nimble and swift,
Repairing the ties, the dissonance and rift.
Time again now moving soon, a boon, looking to the moon.
Wishful thinking, but wistful ways,
Poetic thinking to relieve melancholy days.
Wish I may, wish I might – nay not tonight.

Yet in obscurity light may be found,
Deep within the mountains or deep below ground.
The spark — and granted will to rise.
Commit thyself in nature’s eyes.
Thus never let go of thine tangible immaterial,
And always meet with a welcome most cordial.
Certainly Nostradamus himself could not predict,
A wish granted as if divine, too perfect,
Too rare, too… too manifest and chances thinner than air.
Surely not of the original imprisoned hell,
Air out of reach with no sense of impel.

Yet there standing now and scorpions out of mind,
Bells toll for less black an occasion I find.
Bolts of cloth — shade white,
Happy and full of delight.

Hence now he lies and softly sleeps,
While all else in the city weeps.