Mind
My mind is a creature,
a very fine one at that,
it is equipped to the hilt,
and you can call it well built,
it is the same organ,
with which at birth I began,
it has grown,
with time,
and can do poem and rhyme,
apart from others things,
which it does with rare sting,
I am waiting for signs,
when it would resign,
the day is far,
though not so far,
when this closed box,
will have its final sock,
open up,
and merge with ethereal all ends up.
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