Time and again I declare a level heading
As if I were the judge of such matters
Carrying out an ironclad course woven with shared spools
of desire
All thirst for this state
From the desert of melancholy to the reservoir of fear
Tales are spoken in hushed tones amongst the wandering gatekeepers
For the narrative knows no bounds in the wrong mind
Caressed by an attentive
breeze
Emboldened
with solar fuel
The
running tide is tempered
By a
wistful blue horizon
With such pleasant lines I did forget the nature of being
Holding them in high esteem for a spell
Nascent in form and regard I kneeled at the altar of possession
Clinging to the trail of happiness
It danced to and fro eventually shaking me.
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