It is time to wait with the wooden word, as it swings its sway, winds and waves,
Rhymes bear the ware, where the weary has to wiggle and wind
For the time to bleach and touch upon the begotten bird renewing colors.
The streets nimble, take a walk, to dear the wits across the tumbled.
In its little jar, to pry upon the letters in their long run, scar in scuffle,
Waiting to figure, the late ladders chime into the ocean
Tailing strong, touching hearts, the heads of the waded come apart,
So as to numb their feet and hold the hands as truly theirs and then they can go afar
They knit a new tomb in their old pride and leave their house to ghosts
Much succumb in their fairytale tell-tale twined in terrible inklings of arched minds.
To it they crawl, through it they suffer, to blow a whistle off the dirt
And along they pride off their cuffs, hands on till they had it rough, enough.
Taking time to turn their tune, from muted to mourned, to moulders anew
They have their rifts and trifles; it is not new, they have been through, and through.
What presides in heart hangs in head as they march on to the distant land
While watered down and winded up, they have sheltered their whirled win in sums.
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