Oh, how I love introcet weather
And introspective little ponds
A school of thought perhaps?
Or maybe a change
of dire spit fire routine
It burns my senses dry
I'm now lying on my back
The head I got for christmas
Is staring straight at me
caressing my toe
Glades of enigma and dust
Gone are the dishonourable snowmen
And here I sit waiting
For the sun to expand
into a possibility of catadogs
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