How Do People Think Up Titles, Or Do Anything?
It is the soul
Twixt in motion,
Bended by dreams,
Sinuously thoughtling
Round the the palms and it's breeze
And lo how the old eaves glow
And the rhythm chords the drums in its
Senseless doing,
As the maker decides the making of the doing
The maker makes in the doing,
As the bubble swells and bells and sbwells
And then bursts.
And you feel the rise again.The swaying of the breeze,
And your soul.
And its trees.
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