A Thought or Two This Afternoon

Scintillating flesh of liquid chambers
spin prisms on the world,
as dewdrops to a spider's web
they whisper hue into the air,
a waning sun's sweet despair -
now melancholy blood may seep
into the boards of Nature's hearth,
a hint of dreary day to weep
upon the clouds of moonlight's birth.

Such is thy query in such theory
might the passing time be stopped,
life such as ice, so quick to vice,
that our thoughts may now be cropped,
and with these tears and loathed fears
inscribed about our eyes,
decrepit hands release the sands
that harbor thy sunrise.