Isn't it delightful how
some men's words find ways of
on the pages of
humanity's grand almanac, while other wise words,
no less for their letters,
though low in their intent, find
solace in the bathroom stall?
What nature of man calls out in the
dull, gray paint of that
rickety wonder, that
palette of the contemplative mind?
Unencumbered by disgrace,
by thoughts of biological restraints,
as weighty as such controls may be,
the freedom of the all-release prompts
release of mental jewels.
Could it be,
as one so prone to brandish the burnished pen may think,
that it is all the promise of the audience most captive?
Then again, why not lay credit on the idle hands of fools?
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