Don’t camp at the foothills

Righting ain’t 

wringing when calls

of telecommunicated 

hand-

shakes the 

sadness of 

one, once be-

loved, as the

others do try and

battle and 

then fly.

And by the by, and

curiously wry,

and wronging and 

runging those ladders

to that sky, I end my

days wondering and

wandering about 

the tap-

es

tries, drawn of 

oval-

 beaten ways,

and rays once of 

sunshine’s kingly 

days.

For abuse is abuse,

whatever the intent:

don’t camp at

the foothills if, really,

you need to

dance.

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