A mediocre strain slips through my window
Melancholic lethargy of still tomorrow
Coarse rippling me down alabastar stairs
Of adolescent, dream-swept pillows;
Stolid masquerading proves unfair,
Such as a single passed off for a pair,
And we believe what others seem to know
Is false, with tiny-threaded care.
Silver-dimpled trumpets weep and blow
Outcast, melody-harbinged sorrow,
Tunes unwelcome, notes unaware
Except to that muddled infinitive — "to grow."
Reminisce, and look up at the air,
Recall the proclamation: "Let's mischief there!"
Now, with hard-delivered, less satisfied joy,
Our lay-back, gaze-up days disappear.
What happened, dearest friend and little boy,
To undeveloped passions, unplayed-with toys—
As shoes left for a brother's grow into,
We developed, we played-with, yet remain unemployed.
My head lifts up to whistle with the tune
And falls again, the whisper gone too soon
To metamorphose from evasive shadow
Into the firm effulgence of the noon.