Gust, each upon the lot, and they tower
And belonging to the night, the rhapsodic whispers.
I had walked and walked,
The faint air upon the dark, dark thin and frail lot;
Midnight, and I bother,
To think of such things,
And I’ve only just begun as a wisher from the bare influence
Of velleities, and I’ve forsaken them all, until thought of again.
Mutters, mutters; clangs and clanks,
The toil of breathing, strolling by elders,
The collective winds, puffing as organs; violins collecting maelstroms as a vocal harmony.
The maelstrom, meandering,
Thinking, the clashes and clangs,
For such brought now noise
To all discontent and content.
And by my knees, draped with the bare, strewn grass (and now thickened chill across, lapped with winter),
A cat brushes against and leaves.
Leaves have not fallen, and I was alone once again,
By the trees and their one stare,
And the bushes fiddling with the locusts; and the maelstrom had stayed, focused on staidness,
I’ve fallen in a harmony once again.
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