Twine

Toodle-oo ! Much I ride on holy rays, Into the abyss, into gaiety of space, Dwell over the illumination of divine, Much is poetry too joyful and to twine. En route, I grasped the origin of motion, To attest the course of every emotion, Remote, sturdy, destructive and decline, Much is poetry too joyful and to twine. The first-fruits held in the hand of a quean, Not for me, a mortal so eager and too keen, There’s a quest for what’s better, to sin or to sign, Much is poetry too joyful and too joyfully twine. But there’s the other hand, resolute in essence, The hand that brings the balance and the sense, All that starry sunshine straightened in a long line, Much is poetry too joyful and too joyfully twine.