tell them all we’re happy
through our clean misfortune
the innocence of brilliance and intentions of youth
we wondered through our forests of treason
finding none but plenty
rejoicing from one cup, stumbling through his gales
the oceans toyed with minds, such humour of dismay
it was a pleasurable road, unknowingly the yokefellow prepared
gratitude I send, for the spine you gave
inconsequential ones, behold your fire, your dreams haven’t spoken to you yet
patrician, valediction it may be, know the heavens are scheming
such branches defunct, procrastinating till spring.
