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I really don’t want to write this time

I really don’t want to write this out

I really don’t want to wreak this time

I really don’t want to weave it inside

It’s so dry, dreary, dreamy, dithering spell

I am hauled and mauled by inertia

Inertia is never a frame of reference

In my moments of chaos and clusters

In my figs and twigs and fractal palms

It’s frozen fatigue and fiddle of fetish

Its flummoxed foils and ferment voices

It’s brittle core and molten saliva

Bay at hay, bruising bones

A little haste and a little maze

Wood lands, withering shades of walking wisdom, wood lands, winning over time !!