Eastermonad is upon us once more in teen,
Fever gathers close and a sure all beckons,
Dice have been set against high tides,
Members launch a thought one reckons.
Family of states hail all our dear poets,
Writing strewn in sand and on screen,
Lost souls race back to the ears low,
Sudden movements betray the unseen.
TS teaches she is the cruellest of all,
A man of greater knowledge we know not,
Round head spinning on tables red,
A shine of silver hits the end I now got.
Orwell states the clock striking thirteen,
May we see inside those heavenly names,
April shoots forth as blossomed daffodils,
Remember to breath deep playing games.