silent shrills
spilled forth like flies
from graves of eager repose
dolent will
crept from her eyes
in waves of welling woe
stoically
a stolen bliss
of esoteric air
stranded long
as loss bestilled
mesmeric songs drew tears
sycamores
loomed nigh as night
blew fickle wafts of clove
trickling
illuminously
from aloft the sloe
Max, or Not 