I'm sitting on a swing,
Lilting back and forth
In a way ever so slight
It's hardly true.
I'm resting all my worries,
Slipping sighs of satisfaction
Into simple sultry musings
Of wrong and right.
It's like it never mattered,
Like it never made a difference,
Like the work I thus did labor
Was set askew.
For every time I'd start,
I'd end where I'd begun.
I guess a plotless paling plight
Of pitiful and pendulous might
Might finally yield a fabulous height
To the principles I thought I knew.
Author notes
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