The Sole

 He speaks so to mark the hour
That holds the thought which wants more
Than the tone such crude can sour
Occasions to escape shores
That alarm all with what aches
To stem still from the found frights
Of the feeble thoughts that make
Pained patience such the delight.

He revels in merry brew,
Which mixes with his cherried face,
Full of full abandoned mew
Forgetting his present place
To elude each defeated dream
That harries his station there
To bequeath him with the cream
Of what he finds rare to scare.

Take the token off his hands
And who does he then become
But one of those that commands
Not one gloried glance that numbs
The true taste that escape eats
To tell all whose refuge lies
In the stools that mark defeat
For those that echo such cries.

RVM                  (4/26/12)