From a river you regress,
and like a fountain, you dress,
and settle for less,
for people to stare, in awe of the mold
and pass along, once the story's told.
Its amusing how you choose,
to mix your purpose with your blues,
your fears for your muse,
as you sketch your song, a mile long
on your withered knees, feeling strong.
You watch as the morning dawns,
On your garden floors, the sunlight spawns,
You panic and cage the prancing fawns;
their strides accused of hubbub a lot,
The black kettle mocked again by the pot.
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