What Of the Days That Turn

What of the days that turn to years today,
All the reorganized pneumatic strands
Of the tubular brain, high on fat snot,
Made to pump the fact into both the ears
And eyes, and other senses rediscovered
As if they were born to be flooded full
Of a runny noise configured again?

Wisdom stays quiet of it most the time,
I still babble quite a bit, but I won’t
Let the secret slip by just any words.
What of the fallow folds, the passing turns?
The pen runs out, the hand caressing it
Falls to the side of an ink-stained life,
Thus creating some perfect symmetry.

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