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The Key To The Perfect Way
There was a time
when a pen was a friend
and paper lined up for me,
but the passing of years
and blurring of tears
is making truth harder to see-
ideas when young
sprung like gazelles,
hopping from word to word,
popping like rings my fingers would sing
like an untainted spring
as poetry flowed from me.
But the age in my eyes
as wisdom arrived showed
life isn't a skipping stone,
flipping on water,
dancing to droplets,
ideas floating to roam.
Parsimony grips,
my fingers they slip-
not willing to write from
a soul steeped in night,
I search again for the day.
This circle of wisdom and frivolous balance
must be the key to the perfect way.
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