My afternoons with my devil friends
My evening exchanges with Jehovah
So much muddled thinking in the world
None more muddled than my own
But even that’s not completely true
I try to straighten my thoughts
Along a single branch
As if its leaves were my feelings
Struggling off into autumn
With a will worthy of winter
Summer in my veins
But I see how it all gets muddled again
The personality of a puddle
Reflecting all that remains
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