Upon a shaking car of silence, I
sit with strangers, stare at trash ignor'd,
From stop to stop and on again we fly
and in desperate effort not to be still,
scribble scribe a little thing in ould form
hoping mind and soul will find each other
tho all the words that come feel stolen, worn
and voided gazes will start to smother;yet
before my trip reaches termination
I will lay the couplet as a capstone
my thing may not spur thee towards revelation
but then I ask again, what is a poem?
for one can spend life waxing clever
else all ties to the thought must sever
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