How not to bend, beneath such charm-glowing being of delight?
How to remain sharp before this mind-absorbing sight?
How to prevent slipping inside the soul-pulling gravity smite?
How not to plunge, during the entwine of warm spell-binding night?
I’d query thee, if not for the angst it conjures upon me;
dismay of the dreaded prospect of reject…
Praying to be found proper in thine grace to allow trial-key,
selfish speculation venture of no effect.
Still I utter this lore so world jesters behold,
(the one within too), all forecasts be warned:
forgo shaping towers in frail dough,
lest ebon actuality discloses stout fall.