beyond an evening of spoiled promise, i
chase sunsets through
the dense green of another spring,
walk home barefooted, singing, sighing
that there exists no more terrible evil
than the worship of old gods by young voices,
their golden honeysuckle nectar
caught naked and unaware
by a loitering frost which crouches,
waiting, behind the trunk
around which they climb.
the tenth muse 
A warning and a mystifying piece.
—-
thanks for the comment, tomachfive. the tragedy of youth which doesn’t fulfill its promise is just something with which i’m not yet comfortable enough to write directly, i guess
jsl