Mutability Poem by James McLain

From the mouth of he, it is made.
She is as I said, dear Lord.
Only if I truly must, can she part the clouds.
And cover up and expose the month,
of twelve hundred midnight's.
With out custom you would dictate,
what of the veil?

Not to go without to bed.
How can she promote it,
even covered lightly over how it shines.
And thus I tremble.
Darkness awaits if she gives in.
And the light upon her face if she does.

The night closes around us indirectly.
One of two made of one lost they are,
Why I fear lost some are permanently.
Or the string which around the neck
like the queen of purple hearts and green pearls.
Adjustments you spin around I continue.
We only think of this looking in when others go to bed.
The rest are either that and thus forced to lie,
the well it poisons our sleep.

We hold the power which is done only in dreams.
Doing my will over you there I can do it to you here.
We rise thus I stand, she reclines as is her want.
The thought of any thing else brings us back.
To that other place that you know.
Where we should have never been and come before.