Though the mind is free to lead

through the inks of a stormy letter

its wording is a myriad rumble

which seems to get the better,

as curds may settle within ones bowl

the garden too will grow

but not all the webs are meant to catch

for the fly who’s in the know,

to ease the crease of ever wonder

the heart must interact

unfolding songs from long ago

as a rabbit from ones hat,

and that my friend is all to do

as the eyes forever wander

over dings and things that bump at night

turning thoughts to well done ponder.

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