waves of tectonic repercussions visited on a contorted body;
the tipping balance attendant on a merry night by the fire.
and yet, as the breeze cavorts with my curtains
and a baby robin discusses hunger,
my muse spills out its magic streams,
having arrived at some mystical conjunction
that suits its confidential nature.
and i, blissful beyond belief,
spin my words like glass ornaments,
entirely oblivious to everything else on the earth.
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