Ends come slow
Methods that lend a blow
Pieces I find on the floor
Of a dense mass
in the head
Plans that blur the line
Projecting an image divine
The fruit of carefree dreaming
The deep inquiries into meaning
To the moon I read elegies
Instead of writing idylls
But the mind will have a free reign, again,
With the breaking dawn
[no big deal, wassever]
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