Do I exist?

One thousand words a day,
Nothing forms within the sway
Where seven swords swing
At memories delicate threads,
Delayed and polished,
Purity is prominent between
The raging beasts of tomorrow,
Therapy for the soul?
Ideas turn to compost
Over and over again,
Reborn, rebirth, reformed,
Into something newer, better, older?
Freely the clairvoyant sees
Only what you want him to,
Light trance turns to dusk,
The magic eight ball lies again,
That may always be the case
When solitude is the base
For all my fledgling woes,
Little do I see
Within the extracts of me.

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Poem © Phen Weston 2014

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