Summer

It is the calendar's Holy Trinity

That draws forth the adventurer.

 

With the reclined days

And clingy heat

Comes the brave explorer.

 

Thus begins the search for aliens and serpents

      In the dewy soil beneath contentious rocks

And the overrunning of the battlefield by hooligans

      Armed with nets

      And fishing poles

      And cans of bug spray.

Kicking up gnats from Earth's golden locks.

 

Long days of playing at the edge of Neptune's garden

Are finished off with a long respite

Spent listening to the nomadic trees

As they bring in tales from far-off lands.

 

The grey smell of loam

And distant drumming riding in on a sticky wind

Are an invitation to raise hell in newborn pools

And shake a fist in Jupiter's face.

 

What happens, then,

When there is no more adventure to be had

      Or enjoyed?

When the corners of the vast earth

Have been rounded out and pulled closer?

When the old man behind the curtain has been evicted?

When every page has been turned?

 

What happens

When all of the bugs have been turned up

And the trees don't seem to have anything new to say?

 

What will you do

When the peculiarity of You 

Evapourates with the coming of September

As Urie said it would?

 

You would do well

To recall what She said in Winter.

 

Take to pieces

The old man's machinations.

 

Find new rocks to heave off

Of unseen places.

 

When the trees cease to speak

Listen to the silence,

For many a symphony can be found there.

 

When the library is eaten up,

Find the banned books.

 

What happens when the adventure is over?

You must laugh at such a thought.

 

As for your exceptionality,

You must put its gossamer to the wind.

Recall: the opposite of the Construct births its own conformity.

 

You will, inevitably,

Find your own homology,

Not with a Monolith, no,

But with your fellows scrambling across the peel:

      The explorers.

            The adventurers.

                  Us.