The halls of my mind have been rather
alive,
In a sense. They were dancing with
meter and rhyme,
But at some point in the last two
months, my verse
Has ceased to make merry, preferring
perverse.
The cold weather came, and it followed
the bears,
Or perhaps my mind just went
downstairs,
and now it returns.
I have emerged,
From a cocoon,
Utterly the same poet.
It's as though 'me' is a thing that
really exists.
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