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I throw my head back
In the ecstasy of the mid-day sun.
The grass grows around my feet,
Reaching up as if to say:
"We are part of you; we've come
To deliver the dew of yourself."
I am akin to freshly tilled soil-
My mind waits to be impregnated
By the seeds of my
Solitary contemplations.
Trod no dirt, little one-
Travel nowhere, curious one-
The days will number
Themselves quickly;
The destinations will be
Inseparable from your
Imaginings of their nature-
For you've been to them
As a leaf, a rock, a rich man,
A poor man, a woman, an insect,
And nigh-infinite others-
For dew, like sadness,
Is a global occurrence-
And much like those things-
Were we not both?
Paradise logs its own ****** souls
In the howls of rolling showers;
Who dares to hear, as this world rolls,
Their blighted poem in bursting flowers?
O, I know well, as my boyhood calls,
Of those esoteric and mystical tones,
Raving in pentas' face and bare halls,
To drench youth in maiming unknowns.
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