I Sat, I Rose, I Strode, Be Still

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I sat and dreamt of yellow colored trees

Whilst writing lines of poetry upon it’s leaves

Fall fast approaching was abundantly clear

My Mingling thoughts  scattered far and near

I rose and pondered the reflecting water

My mind engaged in intelligent fodder

Fallacy fixates as the heart grows fonder

I strode observing my mountainous opine

Would words found become fine wine

Poetry proves to be a terrible curse

Especially expecting to quote chapter and verse

Be Still.

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