Sunday, 9 November 2014

Brooding Access

If I could search my idling gearbox
My living memory standing to
A store of dazzling comprehension
Stating clear my point of view

Once again as thoughts escape me
In teasing bafflements they hide
Struggling often to recall again
Behind my thinking lines collide

My brain must have a trash bin
Far too sensitively fixed
Fallen dreams in particle beams
Perfect phrases deftly mixed

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