Will, Son!

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Radiant is thou, wafting through the forest,

I remember the time

we pranced around fellow tourists.

I judge when I live,

so I think while I breathe,

I dislike a taste for negativity,

& question my pity for the green—

Where are the echoes?

Must I always pick up on the universal radio?

Over & out, the channel of thought,

I guess I’ll release

that which I cannot.

’Tis no big deal,

a rod of lightning stole my face,

woke with the sun on my back,

no more doubt to trace,

I am certain in hope & reality,

I enjoy, very much, the skinny elephants of Dalí.

If big were the picture, where would I be?

Lost in a maze —

or lounging in Chekhov’s cherry tree?

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