Writing down whatever comes
Is where I find my other sense
A place that isn’t somewhere else
Or necessarily immense
Lacking any conscious purpose
Turning meaning inside out
Letting all my paths and places cross
Within my patterns as they sprout
And then without a second thought
I read out loud and get bemused
Wonder why my map of thinking streets
Leaves me thoughtless and confused
In the end I find a brand new start
Although beginning isn’t winning
But neither is a sprint for words
That in my fertile rut need thinning
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