A poem is the feeling, Stored. It can also be a pipeline lettery, Waiting. A factory, an engineering. That moves chemicals. Right from the cortex, to text. It’s beautiful. Lovely, Luxury to the stars. The other day, we met lyrics. Right in sight for rhymes. We couldn’t speak. All we did was to pick. The jingles from the lines. Piano playing. We keep waiting for whats next to come. Maybe its finished here, Or lets wait to scribble for more.
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