page

on top of the ridge

rests a cloud of indescribable

thought

that wasn’t constructed

until they knew that you

would be coming around

the tools to build it were not

uniformly made

unless you could appreciate

what it was they were making

to let a thought wander in

and out

of your tiny hidden log cabin

of the mind

then what fooled you into the idea

that you could predict

being struck by this lightning

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About jaybeasley2

a writer, a painter, a poet, a wordsmith
This entry was posted in peace, poem, poems, poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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