the mind is a field of play
disobliged of remorse
forms announce themselves shyly
hidden by their particulars
matter only in themselves
without needing to be seen
substance flows like milk
warmed for needy lips
transformed in consuming
existing in becoming true
before the moment is gone
marked only by pleasure
what happens is all there is
where you are in it unknown
still making moves you
diligently inch along
joyfully doing your part
as the seasons revolve
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