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Sand (or I'm Happy Because This Makes No Sense)
Gathering in your eyes is a gush of lush
Upon a grassy mountain that heaves curled lips onto your face.
Then your brow will slide up a bit
While cracking a joke about a sheath in between the hourglass,
Just sip your tea and roll down the hill
Whispering a solid smile buried beneath
Old waves of grating achings.
There is no end to the cleansing turning of days,
Thought of as one grain of sand,
Light and pacifically timeless,
Once swirling next to a blue whale,
Ending and staying on the mind
of an altered pine tree,
Staring at you right now,
Without the pretension of its own words,
T. J. M. [1991]
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