The
Seventh’s Stretch
In the pitch
of night is when fantasy alights
We’re all
equal when mind’s fire ignites
Emotions
that flow sets desire half filled
If only
the physical were that easily willed
How do
you greet the imposters that Kipling posed?
It’s not
the process that’s supposed
It’s the
conclusion after all that illuminates your pose
Admiration
is never for failure of face not showed
Then the
thought of “am I the impossible”?
Neither
success nor failure for my space is between the molecules
So it isn’t
either or but how much is possible
This
finest of line is the loneliest walk in time
Mind at a
standstill is a lie or a joke
Gin-filled
is the accurate truth but there’s still the yoke
Of desire
unfulfilled because …. well, see above already told
This
conversation demonstrates a story old yearning for bold
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