ALONG THE TRACK,
WILLIAM BLAKE
Makes no matter, differs for little,
drips like blood, makes words fly -
to distant lands, away. We are all
the same. Felpham Manor, can
you save me now? I wonder.
-
I do not always know what I am
doing, though I do it nonetheless.
Stand fast, shout back, illumine
my plates, walk these chartered
streets. Salvation comes from
sourcing at the source.
-
The cat that I have is an apron cat;
one filled with a quietude I envy.
Just sit back. My pounding heart,
by contrast, runs off the track.
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