What once was love was given over, gone
like mist beneath the white hot blazing sun,
but if I should her glance askance upon,
never mind speak ill of that loss once won,
or sever ever her rarest tether,
from the ball that serves hard my smitten heart,
it is yet uncertain as to whether
life would end or come to resemble art.
You may paint my corner quaintly cryptic.
You may play me for the gull I am known
to be.  You may mar my faith as Gnostic,
you may say my mind is blown or home-grown,
   but free.  Let’s cling to our summer simmer,
   as the goddess of the moon grows dimmer.