My mind moves,
Bumping gray-matter grooves.
It doesn't ponder; It doesn't prance.
It's in the club, but it doesn't dance.
Sometimes, I slip into something more
comfortable,
Intellectually speaking.
Through darkness, across my cavernous
cranial cavity,
My mind's eye comes to rest on a
ravishing, raven-haired idea,
and I try to strike up a conversation
with her, to get to know,
To lay groundwork, to hear and to hold
and to hope,
and it turns out she doesn't look good
that up-close.
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