dpbowman

The posings of a poet.

Oasis


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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