I see svelte squads, attachments, golden threads
ascend from my youth. Herbaceous spirals
go stretching out, to hook my ankles. Our
descendant cords with loops that snatch a flare.
I stand, powerless, as my laps mature.
Treasured cells that divide. Do not misplace.
My youth cuts rock, with beryl eyes. Collage.
The tiptoes on exuberant vittles.
I shake, sanctioned. The peaks of our souls blow.
My youth revolves by berths of bellflowers.
Be decorous. Be sure of your recourse.
The svelte, old squads die. Sticking no more. Why?
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Thanks for reading (Stephen)