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Sit by the sounding sea.
See the clouds as they whisper,
whisper, loud and quiet things.
Things that you dare not ponder.
Ponder, instead, your hand as it traces,
traces o’er lovely mountains tipped in rose;
risings and fallings n’er seen by other eyes;
ayes, yeas and yeses scratched in the sand.

© rl busséll 2018

This entry was posted in poetry.
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