This peasant life, though pleasant be, it sours
Like ripest fruit, which gives so sweet a taste
That from the vine the sated mouth devours
Yet over time decays to naught but waste.
On me. I grow in dreams, in fertile lands
Of queens and light and cliffs of glass and gold,
Forsaking stalk and stem and their demands.
Forsaking stalk and stem and their demands.
My plight and plot: a slow death by ennui,
Light-starv'd in this suburban oubliette,
But in my mind a meadow, light, and She. . .
I dwell within, I wilt without, and yet,
I dwell within, I wilt without, and yet,
Although my blossom withers here, I know
My heartwood's safe with her. She makes it grow.