It amazes me that sometimes time makes me wonder how
I did what I did a long time ago when I wasn’t sure where
Time would take me.
It is like how
Rust
Eats
Away
The
Mettle
Of
Life
The
Mettle
Of
Life
And
Her
Her
Thoughts
Or how w e a r y m u s c l e s stretch the elasticity of the will
Even to the extent of adding
Ses…ses-qwee…sex-khee...sex-khee-pee-da-liahn…puh-day-liahn…sick-ski…
…Words or seasonal expressions to make a piece of work
Seem more complicated and conceited than it already
Is, all to only capture your attention for a minute or so.
So I ask: What structures the basis of rambling?
Longhand will always be better
For the man who is losing touch
And tearing at his writings,
And whose freedom is his prisoner’s-train-ride to the Arctic
Where upon the conception of “cold, wintry nights versus the warmth of love”,
Ink doesn’t dry but freezes instead.
Or how w e a r y m u s c l e s stretch the elasticity of the will
Even to the extent of adding
Ses…ses-qwee…sex-khee...sex-khee-pee-da-liahn…puh-day-liahn…sick-ski…
…Words or seasonal expressions to make a piece of work
Seem more complicated and conceited than it already
Is, all to only capture your attention for a minute or so.
So I ask: What structures the basis of rambling?
Longhand will always be better
For the man who is losing touch
And tearing at his writings,
And whose freedom is his prisoner’s-train-ride to the Arctic
Where upon the conception of “cold, wintry nights versus the warmth of love”,
Ink doesn’t dry but freezes instead.
~tc©
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