My short, average, update-type poetry goes to, but I felt the odd urge to versify some of my recent, odd dreams. Since they're much too long for Twitter, I just thought I'd place my musings of the day here.
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Because the knife-stab was so very quick
I would almost be able to forget it was done
A being less than a man lies on the brick
A slaying so just it should have been fun

The papers that could lead to the end of world
Lie right beside him. They’re picked up and hurled
Out into the depths of some beautiful lake
The beauties of the water, too long would it take
To describe their majesties, all bright and awake

The path turned to wood a few moments ago
All is now peace and exquisite serene
I walk out on a pier that’s seeming to grow
As I go, looking up and out at the green

Those trees embodied the haunting one longs for
Such color and vibrancy right down to the core
They were far off, but the glass-like water was near
I took off my shoes and sat on the edge. It was queer
For I could not possibly dip my feet in the bay clear

Refreshing denied the body for a time
Although those old papers had their chance
Seemed not a large concern of mine
The encompassing vista rendered a trance
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Single Sunshine had a fun time going to the fair.
Said the daughter to her mother: “I’m going over there”
Soon she saw a certain one, and she went to meet him
With a slightly strange embrace she did quickly greet him

The tryst lasted for but a moment, something got in the way
What it was or why it came, I simply cannot say
Next she was gone and going on directly, straightly home
Not the one, but his friend along with her did roam
Once at the end this man was left standing at her door
She said, “I miss him, tell him that, now and evermore”
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A delicious forest is down the bend
Never from it would I wend

There’s a transparent pool
Of waters cool
Not deep and not shallow
Just the right depth to allow
The reading
Of the binding of each book
While sitting
In an ever-growing nook

If you stand on the edge of the water
You cannot envision the slaughter

Atrocities happened
To those who offended
The delicate order of their ages
By putting their thoughts down on pages
Their works, though
Charred with the wickedest fires
Continue to show
What such genius inspires

Brilliance does not give up too easily
You can still see it in the pond lily

A purple flower
Repents not the hour
Of its marvelous and miraculous birth
But keeps dear to its heart its own worth
It speaks not
Of what will happen tomorrow
And thinks not
Of where the breezes might blow