Delinquent fingers march fence tops
and window fronts.
Crawling clouds fade my steps from
gray and light.
Knots of words race to the surface
filling a quiet space.
Days are pages folded over,
holding secrets, revealing lies.
The forever looks far and flat
with so many steps and too many bridges.
The fullness of a moon pasted above
sets my path into straight.
Roger Singer 
It’s incredibly think about poetry
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