there's never time for what we say we love
the scribing of the odd poetic line
the run or bike or swim without a shove
perfection of a recipe sublime
consumed with work and keeping of the things
which, truth be told, turn owners into owned
and all the bloody paperwork that sings
in bureaucratic archives filed and zoned
the things about the things which we adore
how easily the meta draws us in
to languish in a state which we abhor
a telescoping corridor of sin
but truly, does the clock run out too fast
don't know, can't say ... I've got to cut the grass
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