By Welkin Siskin


Imagination does want to swing
In the undercroft of things,
And needless to mention does it constantly flow
To uncover what’s called a glow.
To lay hands on and hang onto fancy,
To fancy for whatever could truly be,
Perchance to smooch the light in darkness
Or conceal you from sadness,
Perchance you fancy things to kiss the stars, moon or the sun,
Or perchance to lesson a learn
You imagine;
yet these fancies are unbroken perpetuity.
(C) Welkin siskin.

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