The Ecclectic

The colour changes, blue, perhaps, gets red,
and time, it takes, a word, a music note,
confusion guides, no done is dead
when not to be is something else, remote.

One plays along, perhaps, as mind occurs,
a minute, second, quarter note in play,
until one is adjusted and prefers
to think ahead, to just another day.

One thinks of rainbow, intellect appears,
to guide, and sort, and end the cocktail rise,
which chicken count, producing fears
one loses it, in any quick disguise.

An English sonnet made is on its way.
A thing, and it is just another day.

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