Quickenings come
Wrapped ready
Like the tightly woven
Tissues of
Interior
I bleed throb
Ever ready and
Harkening
To the pace
Of great point
Purpose
Of man
His thoughts are not mine
His ways are not mine
Ever ready
Quick to shift
Focus never settled
But soft
Of the day
Tendance coincides
Bereft of competivity
And stoic
Endeavoring love
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