Thee Author
it has no rhythm it has no rhyme
it sang in me with no concept of time
wildly I'd purpose a certain scarlet
treasure measured beyond the silent
jest I'd come to fathom wits above
thee solid mental structure of selfish
misguided beliefs daintily I'd fallen
amid empty channels of unspoken
gestures of tangible lessons a tranquil
timing I suppose a differ throughout
familiar time lost without rhythm or rhyme
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