Under-song in my hoary hurray
shall sing a summer’s story
“you may be broken, maybe…” –-

ov’r my echo-harbouring shell
dressed up like Endymion’s eyes,
his helium heart.

Your garden consumed
the light-house top
of my latter flowers,
touched true torment
thrice my head’s size,
while freeing falsities
to wander in the grace
sowed for me.

Thou our dreams were conceived
in the dark of fears;
as if we are the deep
within my muscles –

I hear the music
of the ancients!

blessed be and so it shall

lesson learned: question the possibilites, but feel the truth inside, and let it be.