A Rambling

And there shall be much Laughter
In the fountain of the soul
Not realizing how staunch the time
And upon the shore
A washed up yarn
Yearning to and fro
Then some phantom appears
And the shawl thickens
The hood is thick
The brine is grand
But alas the sun does set
Morn comes not soon enough

The lad awakes
But mist is still not thawed
A yawn
A gasp
A subtle scratch
And for movement
He doth rise
And began again

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