It Is Lost It Is

Poem By James McLain

It is fine it is time it is thinking
not of rhymes
straightened corners round
bound by thought
words in a tree hung untouched.
Hand innocence hungry breath
days thought run to years tears
banished never tasting tongue.
Lips unsealed breath weeping
words left beacon of
wisdom's parchment
served left barren souls troubled
sister brethren
soil of food starving tree it's need.
Time sheep fleeced mantles mind
deplaned concepts
taste fruit cover blossom Vin in cold.

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