My mind makes up
itself now as if you’re
Always near and
Bach-tosses Truth’s fugue-ends
Upright,
effortlessly; it wears the core
Of pretext
majored, before ritard, bends
Hope to minored
wisps of lies, and twists
My heart in
mordant turns that terms like “friends”
Inspire. The prelude ends, but time resists
The notes on
which my tuneless mind insists.
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