Tides of Passion

The more I try poetic forms, the more
Perceptions I've established seem to change:  
Blush skies at dusk can never quite restore  
Stability that, by midnight's arraigned 
With ever-alt'ring stars (bright, ceaseless gems);  
Heavens renovated, I expect  
That opaque dawn will differ, like the hems  
Of dresses in shop windows: these reflect  
The passing fashions of the day: they please  
Precipitately; new demands instil  
reform; so then the dress I wear won't tease  
You quite as much as last time, but you still  
Would rip it from me, so it's fucked, perverse  
As tides of passion that re-frame my verse.    
    
   
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