Casually, let us strange things meander,
Back and forth slyly with frivolous banter,
Chatter to flatter with patter that matters.
And soon to rest,
Abreast,
On the rocks that line the shores of these early morning hours,
Akin to the way in which kind children gather curious flowers,
Parallel but not intentioned,
A mystery uncontended,
Just happy to experience the thrill of casually lying down.
These words that reckon themselves to be,
Without form, fruitless casualties,
To the art of the conversation,
A thought lost to the untranslated,
Conversion of ideas to memories.