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The marvel of mediocrasy,

to which we all exist.

Has far too many symptoms,

to which we all assist.

A barrier of boredom,

deoth  we find to love.

As if it ever floated,

upon the wings of a dove.

We cannot find sorrow,

in such solitude.

For it is, the evergrowing reason,

that we indeed, live for the ‘morrow.

Were it not so,

and were it not right.

I am certain, most truelly,

that we would change, in fright.

But stick to life,

as given it was.

We grow in the living,

of avoiding strife.

Is this the way,

it was ment to be?

Do we strive too long,

to hear the sympathy?

Our toils to no avail,

only realized…when upon a sail,

we find a new  meaning.

Which creates all we fantasized.

Nothing is ever as it seems…

©-2006 JB Thomas