On the Revolutions of the Mind

Sandy bore sore to the sour taste of wind setting on the windowsill.

To the girth of the earth, she was all the more small, but to her she stood smaller still.

Though the sand sandy hated, and no shore rest resent,

Sun hated her glisten as it come, go, and went.

The winds left the time in the hands of time and space,

But the hands left the time in the changing winds of fate.

Time, he just blew his pipe and fiddled wood away,

Then Sandy sat and blew within, being mocked, be every day.

Be me, be I, berefting be, begetting bracken three

My quarry dearly cased to cease with ceaseless wrapping tea.

Lo, sandy lass a dearly need to quality the brief,

Lord loses long lost music that canes me to the reef.

The ball and chain do strangely be, on stringly stinging leaf,

And hand her down on Sandy time towards sanity, belief