Plumes of hyper mediocrity bloom as if spring where upon us.
The weaving of time in looms gone by; I see, I want, I need.
To taste, to feel, to hear, to feed, Oh to be heard.
Lying there like some large flightless bird I flail and grasp for you.
As I sit and wait in bogs of light temperate chewing on sweet gale
Like some old wives tale I think of you.
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