The words spoken before the story
Are as spokes in any spinning wheel.
Threads which draw spirits together
Can be tough or tensile as spider silk
Love, unrequited, spurns every offer,
Sour cream disowns cousin; sour milk.
Soul repining after lost illusion
A futile farce still sought widely after
Worldly debts, yet ghosts of intention,
Outstanding despite hollow laughter.
The sulky sun still rests on his chin
On horizons, waiting sister moon,
At that stagnant hour, betwixt and between
When harmony wobbles out of tune.
The weather-stained clock on the old town hall
Shows little interest in time,
Or the antics of sin in his secondary view,
No arrest, no conviction, no crime.
And the man who owned all the purses
Walked by, never tripping on stalk or stone,
Pupil of Shylock, controller of strings,
What’s theirs is mine, mine alone.
No view of landscape by lantern,
No measure of soul by the eyes,
Welcome not gauged by the smiling,
Sorrow; no friend of goodbyes.
During the telling of secrets
Canthus stretching from bridge to cheek-bone
Taking thought for a leisurely ramble,
Thought prefers to travel alone.
Still truth and lies will quarrel forever
And lawyers will ever invent.
Rainbows are heralds of fortune today,
Forthcoming; but melt at the tenderest touch,
And fate never measures her winnings,
Happiness withered by such and by such.