Where yesterday, they lay unbound within
that pit of joy: skipping pleasure's eye shone:
processing o'er the virgin stars of night.
Uncleaved, the fruit, no cloven star reveals
but split between it's equal parts, seen
in critical comprehension; what perfect
in created form: forms patterns accidental.
As the bud yields to the bee, craving the light
it opens fully in it's natural innocence: so they,
there, entangled of their duty reach for that
reflected: reflected in the surging of the heart.
And thus they fall in generation. In expression;
in the turning of the lamp-light low, they dim
to shine with brighter swelling fire; but fall:
not from grace, or lost desire, or shame.
Just the ticking hands of time. And the space
which hourly grows, where before it pruned
in constant of those dreams not present.
When they might, in the sin of adultery, reflect
upon their lesser self: and that they did not know