Nothing to Address

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This dazzle dances in the unstill eye,
a wandering road of light to contemplate,
to those who rise so early or too late
that sequences of thought must pass them by.

A sound-tracked day its silences encodes,
and let attention stray from noisy voice,
a drifter slips by all those doors of choice
emerging safe on long-untraveled roads.

The vegetation of a deep content
out-rivals laziness, but it's not chained
to inaction, synapses to circumvent;

from its oblivion springs fresh wholesomeness:-
snowdrops brushed with winter sun, sky-strained,
sweet in themselves, with nothing to address.

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