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Cast it back,
Cast it out,
Freckled innocence,
Blooming doubt…

The present is the presence of past.
Wrap and preserve it since nothing will last?


If daily we have the same lessons,
And become as the message itself
Absorb and engage all the pith of the page,
And freely grow fat from our wealth.

Then surely there is a real balance,
And surely a place there to rest,
Where distant loud rumbles are voices that grumble,
Where unity comes from the test.

But what is this stress that still rises,
From the base to the edges of things?
And agitates toes and our eyelids that close,
With a drum beat that constantly rings.

Can we then go and hide in our habits,
And forget how the ardent hope stings?
Or mumble some mumblings to blunt it’s mute humming,
And fumble the freedom that sings?

I was once off away in the ether,
But now tied to a solid real post,
Where I can’t quite see how I might see her and be,
Left idly behind as a ghost.

And time is as usual skipping,
As fast as we try to be born,
Just lounging around where the air meets the ground,
And the dead of the night meets the morn.

And you know all too well of the fleeting,
The instants that counted in vain,
Are grasped and held tight for a short evening flight,
Where nothing is ever the same.

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