I haven't penned lines for what seems like aeons.
I haven't penned lines but watched the cadent stars slip away at night.
I farewelled the Lesser Bear and let fly
Ardent Arrows that burn the Nine Suns
And reclaimed what's mine—
Apollonian Command.
If Beatrice wasn't in that beatific vision,
Would he still ascend the Heights,
Wander through dark groves, only
To be stopped by beasts Lupine and more?
I've learnt that loss may mean gain.
I've learnt that my Versecraft grows weak
And that I write less and less.
I’ve conjectured its meaning to be:
I love her less and less.
Love, not least like poetry, is unformulaic.
It may not be called Loosened Speech,
But certainly it is not named Lethargy.
Still I hold dear the Thetas,
Not now inflamed by You,
But for memories of a time
I was beloved by Muses,
If not by You,
And afforded the Strengths in my perennial pursuit,
Crossing seas and skies by taboo means, and tearing asunder
Divine and Natural Law, to stitch into the boundless and infinite Cosmos
The Questions of Antiquity.