Poem -

asleep in the tyranny of lost things

asleep in the tyranny of lost things


intrepid muse. fuming at the bit
like a consummate fumarole
at the bottom on ocean 
of sun

tumbling in complete 
disjoint from all
other ones.

a flow that sings
when the sting is a kiss
and a pure
thought.

asleep in the tyranny 
of lost things
finding it 
all. 
 

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