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My Mind
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My mind is not a fresh thing every morning,
though I would wish it so, washed and clean
from dreaming,
open to the harmonies of day like a flower
prepared to receive the bee.
But instead it’s filled with humdrum madness,
collections of the night that might not have
been
as kind as dreams can be when all is well.
I face tumultuous reckoning, even at first
light,
my sleepy mind still drifting, holding on
to night,
and nothing is made easy, each moment in
decision
makes each moment turn,
with wriggling invention, escape or stay
and fight
as if I am a warrior and my cause is right.
The battles of each moment, some great some
small,
fill up the day with carnage or success,
but all
such fights are wearing on my mind,
and at the end of day I relish sleeping where
I find
an empty field, no raging wars
but purist sleep amid kind stars.
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