The wise question the tries
Who could ever endeavor
To pleasure the circular rout?

How’s won’t associate with nows
Who live behind golden gilded Dows,
In balconies
Through emerald seas,
Far above all the burning ages
In the crux of frequently fingered pages
Above all the howls and the joules
From wooden towers
Another symphony,
And the bows, and the troughs
And the owls and the bowels
And that nagging, unshakable, magical
Lingering doubt?

Would you ever endeavor
To better the bettor
Who bet on the better who
Fed off the debtor
Who leaves them all gleeful
To intricate nothingness
Drama and trauma
And fruitful young emptiness
Well far beyond
In the countdown
To the silence
To tantra
To center
To oneness
To beauty
To power
To glory
When we’re finally let into
Loving the infinite out?

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