Nursery Rhymes of Another Summer

Quizzical, not quite commical
I work with fire to steel myself.
To control a head emotional,
to ignore my failing health.
Ignore the loss of all but my pride.
From this perch my perception should be clear.
In Purple Towers my scope was wide,
seeing not just space but years.

Obstructed, my view,
by crimson and green.
Not symbols of Yule,
but feelings that mean
emotion taking over.
Sprouting, wrapping, shouting, obscene.
Like ivy or clover,
but they grow over me.
Colors kill off the glow,
the shades all do smear.
I'd speak but no one else does know,
of not just golden, but years.

I am stifled, I must be perfect.
Must evoke respect, must patrol.
Must not rest, or defect.
Where is my control?
Must rule myself,
with a calm, collected, blue head.
Leave my pulse on a shelf.
Kill creeping anxiety and dread.
With this power I'll be crowned.
I, my subject, shall cheer.
But my heart won't wrap around
not just lovers, but years.

Spirals shot,
scared straight.
What can I learn, what've I got,
when I reach conclusions too late?
I have no understanding, I have no peers.
Eternal plight, no safe landing,
for not just hours but years.

Born a scribe,
For a Pharoh of Egyptian duty.
A transcriptor who thrives,
on neat, simple beauty.
No passion, no pain,
just smooth white vellum and lines.
As comforting as sleep to the brain,
a carver for all time.
No denial, not deceived,
I will ignore jeers.
And I will receive
a purpose, a life, not just years.

Honor and glory
may turn my veins gold.
But to be gilded is my story,
beautiful young, tragic old.
As we salute like we're shown
spectators eyes fill with tears.
Glistening towards a paperweight throne.
Lost not just myself, but years.