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Thought Process

Joseph Veronneau


...And so I told the muse
to make sense of it all,
and he just nodded an empty nod.

The muse leads me to the river,
after shrugging when I asked a question
about how day and night are similar.

We sit on boulder-sized rocks, as I
drink down words that dry my throat.
If I were at home right now,
I'd be the unmade bed; twisting and flailing
in dirty sheets, laying sleepless for the night.

He tosses away things that are worth
being kept, I find most of them down here,
swimming upstream, against the flow,
and I end up jumping in and pulling out
the weary thoughts.
I can usually plan on being
led astray before the muse settles in,
quits throwing away the valuable;
dampening thoughts, which I then turn around
and dry in the open air, refreshing them all.




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