I heard a fly buzz when it died.
Search me how it happens, I’ve tried:
It’s tired, it’s soft, it’s Friday.
Science just wasn’t my forte.
Similarly, my devotions
Equate the wind with the oceans.
No proof, just a solemn feeling
When it roars above the ceiling.
Once I looked deep into his eyes.
Their rare colour was a disguise.
Small are questions. Why him? What for?
My theme is big, etched on scrimshaw.
Thus I stay in my wooden room
Leaving outside to share and zoom.
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