unless work is pure play,
it’s not worth it, I say—
but if play isn’t pure work,
they don’t want it, I see.
so even a pen’s weight
is troubled—not lifted—
stained for what it’s attained
of pleasures so unjust.
when the heart starts (art)
and the mind flowers, blooms,
what more so proves, springs
forth fresh its mighty use.
at your service, it is, now,
this handsome objective,
earnest and eager to please
but just best and the brightest.
though with beck and call from all,
from every direction, coldly
does the earth turn away from us,
shirking its love for the faithless.
but like every body in any space,
its warmth cannot be destroyed,
once created: saved, it saves
sweet sweets from bitterness.
there comes that hour, nigh as noon,
where all will fall and meet their selves,
without intercessor or middle ground—
how then our heat seems such mercy.
passions unattested for in men
sour their case to each other,
then their loves, worn-out, tire
of giving into their soon loss.
as a mother’s nature would wane
at the sight of her ripened children,
so too will life cease to nurture
those, unmoved, off on their own.
for beauty be most basic remedy
to what ails both sound and light;
such subjects serve all honestly,
with their air and endless sight.
though time yet never finds friends,
good friends will still find the time,
hidden, cuddled or at the ends
of the earths and to the skies—
good, get up now, pray, plead
for this weightlessness, lightly,
t’again descend, and so begin,
striking mightier than before—
if ever there’s a chance
(romance) to sing, I’ll say,
and value for value we dance
and trade, then, (I’ll) pay!