Sometimes I wonder where I'd wander if I wandered where I wondered.
And if I wandered where I wondered then I'd wonder if I'd wander
Or simply stay.
And if one ponders one's position,
In this climate of attrition,
Should one pull one's prose asunder under thunder clouds of grey?
What right do you have
To write what you have?
To discern and to coil in my stomach
Why so sad?