wooden floor rises up; becoming
one with possibility. there will be
a yearning when night seeks lover.
floor rising now, and day must
now battle night for supremacy.
yay, it will be so, and wooden
floor has risen.
mumbling incoherent nonsense
frustrates status quo; rushes
against becoming one with nothing.
attitudes need adjust accordingly.
rumbling voices echo loudly now;
in competition with arrogance
and that status quo.
keep going north until sourth
surrenders and birds of chance
will then echo so; full of plump
juicy berries. no wallowing
allowed here, pumpkin.
not with all the prodding and
poking. and a poet wanders
free and clean. much easier
stopping a storm than a poet
full of vigor and fire.
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