Textling #25

Like a coin pusher in a game parlour whose tokens rarely reach the ledge I herd before me all those things I ache to do. A penny for a plan, naughts and naughts of them: books to read, people to meet, work to make, exhibitions to see, borders to cross, thresholds to leap over, and the heart pounds, and the brain shouts: syncopation!, and the clock turns its face away – tick tock, tick tock, hold that thought, tick tock, tick tock, let it drop.


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