Shall I ever find a poem,
Tightly bound beneath my tongue?
Will the days remain so full,
Of vibrant life for all its musings?

I would hope that without end,
Merry whispers drain my lungs,
And the joy of truest Joy,
Is my dear beloved choosing.

On the evening grass, false stars transfix,
Make for static reverents in deep blue,
Clamour and old tumbling rush are quelled,
Pushed as a bad dream to the edges of thought,
Forgotten for a sweeter day cloaked in night,
For laughter and becoming nearer friends.

Rustle no more - for the curtain is behind,
The world applauds in beaming yellow,
I see a sea of faces I haven't known,
But we share a time and moment
In the quiet turmoil of this boiling land,
So full of learning poured on out,
We stare beyond the sea and grass,
To truer sea and sharp horizons,
To trials and tales of valor in this boiling land.

A helping hand received,
By words on a screen,
To aid a friend in need,
In mathematical madness to see
-Reason to the many dancing threes,
And other numbers of course,
Denoting countless probabilities.