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Feb 2015
Something
At the edge of thought.
More delicate than a dandelion seed
And more powerful than
The wind that blows it.

Somehow
I manage to run
While wanting
To stay
And act
Upon the restless order.

Someone
Beckoning.
Ceaselessly,
Continuously,
Lovingly,
Until at that moment
Preceded by millions
Without Substance,
I listen and hear.
John Davis
Written by
John Davis
407
 
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