We are rogues in the gallery
of ever more darkening whys.
All humdrum & piddle-paddle
we rattle, prattle on ’til dusk.
The orchard of time’s diminishing venue
has dropped its fruit at our feet.
We plaster the pictures on the wall.
Judge not until you heed the call.
Line up. You have a number.
When asked say, “present.”
In your wonder you have wandered
to a clearing of the mind,
outlasted your resistance,
to find that each and every path leads here.
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