Wednesday, July 12, 2017


Thoughts of what I might well do
Bubble up within me,
Rising to the surface of my mind
And popping into the open air.
What of them remains?
Only the occasional chunk of stuff,
Stirred from depths by currents unseen
Remains to be found
And played with
By the rare child who comes traipsing along
And pokes it with a stick.

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