To S Poem by Roy Ernest Ballard

Are mayflies, dancing dozens to the reel,
as free of will as they are skilled of flight?
Or must they dance however bad they feel
and stay when they would rather say goodnight?
I want to fly towards the Milky Way
to bring you rubies crystallised from tears
where curtains of creation hang and sway
and cloths of heaven clothe the frontiers.
Would I be seeking treasures in the sky,
by tracks of freedom that I fail to see,
caught by a logic that I can't deny?
The wildest will will rule when will is free.
Set free or not the status suits me well:
I find contentment underneath your spell.