when we fall from our idle tongues
to the traveling tracks of virgin drums
and conclude our moist lips,
to the odorous of angelic bird-songs.
all to be our own little tinkering saga,
sailing over the alpha and omega.
chance evident if innocent,
loose hands trickle the magnificent,
as the spider spins and spins her cobweb
to catch the stars of pure hearts
so they can everlastingly shine and be tied
and be cited by those who lost their steed,
for they loved with swords on duckweed.
so if you glimpse skyward to assert,
may all burdens and afflicts avert
that the tinkering saga can exert to concert,
in your heart, so all can be beautifully art
and you can depart blithely from tears
to the stars of pure hearts.