It’s a new high, it’s the old low,
Betwixt what I dread, yet seek to know.
Like pulling teeth and splitting hair,
The exchange mayhap a tad debonair.
Has vacillation bound these tongues,
And habit replaced awe before long?
“Mayday, Mayday!” A mayfly’s lament,
Its cocoon cast onto the firmament.
If absence makes the mind grow fierce,
How to stretch the hours across the years?
A scholarly play, a delicate lie,
A demand my breed can’t satisfy.
If a junebug I were, would it put us at ease?
Or is this, all this, but my paranoid reprise?
“Maynight, Maynight!” a mayfly’s last tune.
Come join me some night in my new cocoon.
June 23rd-August 14th, 2019 by Passenger B ©