Pretty and unpretty poetry
form yes, the headache of the creator.
after all, such dreams are vast
and barely below the surface may we delve.
he sits there, a gentleman dreamer
in his rocking chair — now
he contemplates a universe (again, his dream)
powered by the faint creaking maple of that chair.
it doesn’t crunch anymore, for all the grains of sand
have long since been ground to dust.
all this instead of gears.
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A poem a day keeps the doctor away