The flying serpents waggle through the air;
My hand, distended, eyes on target, set,
The amber gem betwixt these ribs to fret
Your crimson stone, the light of which to share,
Is absent; sleeping; yellow, mine, aware:
The cause, this pang, though desert and offset,
The wet withheld, no flow–with you in debt?
My hand, distended, eyes on target, stare
I, wraith-like, veiled; you cease not step or time
And passing through the amber glow, no wait,
In search for answers, and in aimless climb.
I tell you, stop and see the string of pearls,
Enticement; hear my silent ghostly quake.
My hand, distends–oh, eyes of target; mine?