and the roses bloom…

whenever you argue for something
you’ll need its end as proof for,
you are, for a moment, a poet’s part,
finding nothing left but your heart!

and so, then they’ll call you names
like, poor, poetic or poetical,
grades of satisfaction-attractions,
through such convoluting distractions—

but, in truth, pride and not arrogance
wants you, not just for the ride along;
such is love; then, duty torn apart,
only true when you were from the start—

see how its pattern beckons one to look
and to see, at least, what was going on
in a mind trying, flying or crying,
warning you or reaching yours, drying—

o that what we know be just near nothing—
save to breath and move as easy through—
but not nothing or knotting, truly something
still consistent when unseen by them or you—

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