The posings of a poet.


There was a well I thought my own

But my perception I should hone

For when lines were drawn and deeds laid claim

It was not mine in use or name


Then I noticed close at hand

A source to quench the driest land

A spring there rose so fresh and sweet

And flowed freely past my feet


I followed after the silver trace

Until I arrived in a vibrant place

Full of life lived to the hilt

Where ever this free fountain spilt


And so i knelt as pilgrims do

And realized that the oasis grew

And welcomed me as it’s own source

Though clearly it was mine of course


So I stayed and found relief

From many a falsified belief

And drank not from a worthless well

But from the depths one cannot tell


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