For all his exaggerated feeling

Can he see clearly what is tine

Beyond the realm of such reality

His words tell a story of the refine

Fables and lore are his occupation

A musing of the well afar estates

For hours in wonder

Caring not if the hours are late

Intuitions seize his commands

All tuning to the mystic sense

And writes by a ghost of hand

Eternally enlightened by a strike of the pen

His well born eye is the mind

Sympathizing of smallest captures

Foreseeing the shattered panes of time

Wooed by the great ideals of enrapture

Still bane he flights

Tarrying the furthest impression

Lost in an underworld of delight

Worlds real undone by possession

Below in the cold vault aspiring

Chains are the chine of every rhyme

Such lowly captive of worldly retiring

Awaiting one cloudless day to shine

In this dream there is nothing unseen

Awake there is only the call of the gallows

In beyond his words can never leave

But closed eyes alight even the very shadows

Great Hermes, what has become of thee?

Such freedom has earned your price

And yes you have no enemies lurking of eve

But you have not commissioned us thrice

I so adore of all your logs passions

Have I read them all with earnest depth

Yet do you use your body’s strength with action

As so accustomed on the precipice and ledge

Visiting is only the great voices in the trees

As were the sounds of Eden

The beloved forces of three

Pan across very path unbeaten

With sun, grapes and water shimmer

Divine scribe capturing colors of the bow and arch

Make the deed of the great day written

In your feast passing from pen to parch

Tell them and make so complete

A wondrous affinity under a chimera’s bower

The baroque tales written for the sumptuous queen

As well as splendid kings in ivory towers

Great scribes of Hermes, lend me your hand to grasp

Ensue me in your noble chapters bound serene

Of tales that few can make lasting affections task

Your embellishing utterances inspires me to breathe

By Michael Pinnell

12/2/02