Thoughts tiptoe gently across an imbalanced mind.
Things pure, things ugly, some are dull, others shine.
Weaving in and out through the mazes of the brain,
Finding different places to squeeze in and out again.
From the overflow of the heart these silent masses glide,
Some are singing, others ringing
A song of contemptuous pride.
Carefully some of them are wisely weeded out,
While others left to fester there rot mind and soul and mouth.
