Ends come slow
Methods that lend a blow
Pieces I find on the floor
Of what was 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
Tonight I write an elegy
Instead of writing idylls
And the mind will have a free reign, again,
With the breaking dawn
ca. 2013/14
was probably stoned during this scribble
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