†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† THOUGHTS


Thoughts are like vultures that fly high,

and feed on bits of hours gone by.

They screech and scream in my silent mood,

And shake the elements of manhood.

They hover in circles around my head,

And smell parts of me long dead.

They grow in number and in sound,

And quickly fill the space around,

And dim the glaze of my vocation,

That spurs me on and feeds my passion.

So rest they must as they indeed,

Are a poetís greed but labourís disease.


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