A thought

Oh mind that you would play the fool.
A butterfly on flowers rest.
No rest would thou give a weary soul?
In a search so purposeless that a folly
It be to take it further.

Thou doest get enamored in fleeting thought.
Which but no real use serve.
It be a fools praise to get this aphrodisiac.
That the very gods to shame put.

Oh mind. It be a malaise of thine youth.
To but chase that which would
Unattainable be. When then to such avenue turn.
Which would end in self pity and sorrow.

With the ardour of youth thou would the body turn
To thy bidding we be like puppets.
To be reviled and scorned to fall bodily. Yet thou… to rise.
Thou would play a trick on even the learned.
String along promises on the good path only to fall in unseen pit.
Thy work indeed a mystery. We all turn.

Becalm thee. Thy muse does yet uncertain stay. Ever changing.
Thou wouldst scarce still understand the poetry thou conspire.
In thy search of the epitome of beauty thou
But a fool made. This hundred times. Nay. A thousand times more.
Thou wouldst a zenith approach
Only to see its nadir.