the poems stem
from my thoughts
the deepest of roots
as trees, plants throw
up flowers, fruits
in my search for words I
try my best to bloom,
cannot afford to look
at the number of bards,
other visitors, perched
on the branch,
counting is difficult,
even distracting,
a zero,
a curious circle
simple enough
to restart, research
stubborn, born of a stub
ill-afford to slow down
speed up for nadir or crown
the beginner in me begins
forever, all periods a novice,
it eschews to be seasoned
no matter what, the troubadour
perpetually parched for
the lines to survive
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