Nothing to be seen here

Chit chat, does not a poet make

to babble over knee high waves

expression for the masses,

words that rest in shallow graves

cheap wine in dirty glasses.


The footing is always at behest

the grounds a wander and turn

away from the fray at hand

no escape from the minds subtle burn,

over falling fluid dangerous land

drifting lost on courses from there to here

along this wayward winding path

not where or how, not far or near;

but cross along the hairs

fine razors at the footing

each nudge a waver leaning

every word the song of mooting.

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