6 May

Over yonder where the pollen remains collect
There is a young one whose wayward flowered intellect
Has gone astray in the aftermath of an excoriating affect

Now in the text of a sailor who has never known the sea
And an artisan of life who has never seen la vie

There sits a lonely thought perched on the sequestrian vine
A songbird without a song to sing, yet somehow versed in ryhme
-Harley