Staple it to the door
The threshold that marks
Known and imagined rooms of the mind
I believe what I will
Will what is to be believed
Scrawled on the crinkled note
If such talk were so becoming
Would we speak
In such a beleaguered manner
Tones so diverse
Charmed with thoughts of momentum
Well I sat down here
Still feel tricked by it all
Just a blinking cursor
I realize I’m on notice
Taken from my repose
My limb driven reverie
Wondering
Which side is listening
Right now.
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