Again the hour's late at night, <br />or maybe just dusky early mourn'. <br />Twilight seeming many ages past, <br />as my path brings me to you. <br />Minutes to spare I have only few, <br />as dawn's nightmare's approaching fast. <br />As if stung by love's eiry thorn, <br />I'm hauled by some other-worldly might. <br /> <br />You're safety is; that you'ld never ask. <br />Should I shed my heart spoon by spoon; <br />you'ld probably seek it to swiftly pass <br />like a witless cloud on a sunny day in June. <br /> <br />And so there's no other refuge <br />to which I would rather turn <br />Before in the coming sudden deluge <br />of July's Sun I will wither and burn. <br /> <br />So I bid you for a little bed of marked soil, <br />the peace of shade where a tear I'ld spoil. <br />I have no grandeur, no beauty, just a final hour <br />during which I'ld be your a little flurried flower<br /><br />Frank Witte<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/flurry-flower/
