until I found out it was truly
Saturday, and so everything
was not as holy and reflective
as was once thought. My inner eye
shifts from north to dead ahead:
With our melancholy drawn out
from us like worms from the
soft soil, what looming shadow
now do we cast on the stage? One
of doubt; the uneasiness we get
between periods fourth and final?
Or one of our youth, which we
do not have to lean far to
pluck out of our conscious.
If it is escape that we crave
from the shadow of maturity,
we won't have to search very far.
The play's the thing,
wherein I'll breathe sparks
into the bones of spring.
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