In fickle flames:
Should we bow to where and which
when we hear (the pitch) of know and how?
The same of fame creeps unto voice:
a smoky sounding have no choice.
Admit we choose
when starry pupils spark excuse
when lighted there and then bewitch
yet senses five aren't fully barred.
(With scars) how we must choose rejoice!
Perhaps that we and us forget
we'll part with dry and soon be wet.
Our eyes, our voice
our choices met:
We'll crackle and smolder,
We'll glimpse beyond shoulder,
We'll exist both far away and colder
Our lives beset,
and mostly over.