I wasn’t really happy with yesterday’s poem. It failed to keep rigorously to the requirements of the rhyme. The one below is slightly more satisfactory.

Look in the interstices
  of spider webs and flowers.
To purge the inner vices
  look in-between the hours.
If you would find true pleasure
  in aromatic spices,
it’s not in what you measure;
  it’s in the interstices.

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