He saw the light leap leopard low
A ribbon from a wanton bow
A slash of fire on Saint Elmo’s brow a lurid smile denotes the scholar’s mortal grin
One would not think darkness the repose of sin
Melancholy was a pose of those within the bounds of mortal care
But age no longer rests on withered fare
It has no sands to spare or spend on dark delights
Our turns are marked by measure of the dimming whites
That with love’s final final flights do take us to tomorrow’s canceled day
A withered day a witless way when a barren scale does weigh
The dominion of our simple clay on a serried scale
No less terrible than a gutted wheel its last careful joy impale
The day after that final day no clock can measure
No eye could sight a promised sulking treasure
Was deadly pleasure the reason for his wanton search for sanctioned oblivion
The deadly windlass was finally secured with Diocletian’s angelic sun
A sign of veneration crosses the cycled sea
But its light glows softly as it comes to me
Spun badly from a ragged gash
A ribbon fit only for a sailor’s sash
