That small spot will be warm no more,
With rest brought on,
By playful sun,
And the dust motes,
Have to find another for those endless games of tag,
Played with such skill and patience,
In the waking times,
And the dreaming times,
When legs twitching,
All was prey.
No poet I,
No laureate who's words,
Restless as the wind tossed sea,
Rise to crescendo,
Pulling at the light within,
To beguile beliefs
And cause the mind,
To soar unfettered,
Through the glories,
Of his forming thoughts,
While I must toil,
To hammer laboured links,
And bend the subtle forms,
With sleepless nights,
And silent pondering,
To fit with my own ends.