A Humane Turtle

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Selective Sensibility

The Final Frame

And now the final frame:

 

Yes, it is the typical tirade
The trouble letting go

No more Melody, or dreams of D
No more Home outside of me

While I cherished what we tried to make
I never got the flow

 

Ah, heck, I wish I could just turn my back
And leave it all behind

The bad, the good, the dearth of time
The things I couldn’t find

No more masquerades, no fait accompli
No closets with no room for me

 

The irony in all of this:
While having what is most alike
Myself I could but miss

 

A Rare Rose


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On a night out, many months ago
A stranger gave me a rose
On the dance floor, the inconvenient rose
Was passed on to me. Although:

The rose was not the usual kind
Yes, after few days, it sunk its head.
Its blossom went all dry and dead.

The leaves, though, had their own mind.
They stayed alive, day after day
And new leaves grew and followed their way.

The rose is still with me
Alive, without a head
Without its roots, but doubtless instead
Full of life.

 

Sisyphean Stiches


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Three balls of yarn:
They make the tiresome transaction
into a crocheted cute construction

Oh no, I gasp, that isn’t it!
It isn’t right, it doesn’t fit!

And so the stiches have to go
Back to their neverland of whoe
Within three balls of yarn.

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