These comely things of tomorrow have come and gone;

This isn’t what your mother would say.

These things in which I think about

Have a being of their own.

You do not own them;

You would be nothing but a madman to think otherwise.

I feel like things can be mine.

This is nothing new;

To be in disguise and wondering about the fates.

These would shout, but they have no voice to do that.

You could say, “Oh, wow,” but for your mouth.

What will happen when the style changes?

“Oh, God,” you’ll say.

You have no recourse,

But to your belief that seems to fester, but for the creativity.