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Still no Window,
Still no Whiskey.

Still no Mountain,
Still no Glade.

Still no Rustic
Bench or Rickety
Table.  No Oil
Lamp, No Hand-
Whittled Pen.

No Daydreams
Wafting 'n Wefting;
Curling Heavenward,
Mingledancing with 
Tobacco Scents.
No Time Sense,
Such as with 
Such Contemplatives,
Such as with
Surrenderers to 
Fate...Much as with
The Untired Retired.

I suffer from
Idylolatry and Idleolatry.
I suffer from
I suffer from

...and yet,

I write.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

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