Amidst the mysterious meandering brook,
Flows the thought of the poet's book;
A pen of ink like a trickling stream,
It turns and weaves on the poets dream.
It's like a year of tears of rain,
Which kept the poet's mind so sane;
It's this train of thought a mortal link,
That strain his mind to want to think.
It's not as if it's a normal thing,
But peace and happiness yet it doth bring;
The poet's stream for a wondering look,
Entwining into yet another book.
The poets stream yet one more time,
Enfolding into yet one more rhyme;
The pen of floral and dainty daisy dare,
A silly yellow flower stem stuck with care.
Now writing down its poets hand in hair,
His fingers touch his skin so fair;
Of which the dainty daisy dared,
Its face an inch now leaves him spared.
The poets stream of which did seem,
To be the work and life of dream;
Is lost into the night of dark,
Until awakened by one bright spark.
Signed,
A shoulder touch
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