A Third Arm - Gord - Aspoet
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Gord

2020-12-23 03:32 pm
Drawing breath, intending a scream,
Time passes, wake from dreaming,
Sometimes excessive zeal demeans,
So squeak like the law itself,
Garlic men, in the broadest sense,
Concentrate on the bread when pressed,
But what of butter and how it melts?

Even of appalling strength,
Does it correspond to depth, or meaning?
Rocking chair, what have you seen,
Beside the bedside and people watching?
Even if time lacking, population immense,
Despite desperate pleas: fences.

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