comes between us
like a raft
between the sea and sky.
Stop.
As one waves up, excitedly
the other's raining down reply.
Stop.
Til' this small craft fills up
with gift of purest mixed
with salt and rainbow spray,
and it capsizes not.
So borne it is in pull
from either way.
Stop.
Born to End
that it knows not
first glimmers or beginnings of.
Stop.
A thing of natural force, it goes
afloat at rocket's pace from slightest nudge
and never comes to shore
or comes to shove, with every push
so well-received and well
-thought of.
Stop.
So correspondence comes to much,
perhaps too much, but what
is not to love?
Stop.
Born to End
that it knows not
first glimmers or beginnings of.
Stop.
A thing of natural force, it goes
afloat at rocket's pace from slightest nudge
and never comes to shore
or comes to shove, with every push
so well-received and well
-thought of.
Stop.
So correspondence comes to much,
perhaps too much, but what
is not to love?
Stop.
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