Ode to the Unspoken
If these words do not leave my lips
If one's thoughts do not channel through the filter
and if when I contest over which window opens and shuts;
then which way does the wind blow?
Lying down on quiet pastures,
I notice the dandelion.
Solitary, lonesome, though adorned in grace.
Insignificant outside the grassy knoll,
though I may recognize it's true and modest spirit.
Watchful, aware, I let the thoughts fossilize
as they wait in the purgatory
between mind and the material.
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