One type tend to fall in a rut
The other tend more to beat themselves up
A long body reach, slipping wisp
Swirling cups

To reach down find is up
No sense I have found
Such things go around
And round, god dressed as a clown
Speaking lips make no sound
As the sky touch the ground
Worlds of being, lost and found
Plains of circular mound
Underneath domed glass towns
Sparkles rise laugh, sing, now
As eyes opening, crown
Draw existence in a spot
The endless
Not,       dot
Wot

 

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Published by Tom Lopes