This way or that way or does it matter
how we arrive at our destination
eventually, the route must mean something
what it is, I'm not sure, like a batter
at the plate who swings at a pitch, to strike
yet another batter out, this station
of the bus line or the next, when to ring
round to tell the driver to stop, random
thoughts appeal to artists fishing for pike
however, only finding a poem
as an answer to repetitive dreams
to the sense of a loop like the O-M
witnessed when a brahmin exhales, she beams
at you when she's finished, you know you've come
yet you wonder where it's gone, all her food
obviously, dogs eat quicker than eyes
reasonably can see, we come and go
does it matter at all, our attitude
over whether space-time is curved, or loops
exist within succession, as if lies
simply reveal our attitude to show
imitators, we don't care about pain
though, of course, pain is real among the troops
making it worse to tell them of the truth
aspects found in landmines, caught in tripwire
triggers an explosive device, her mouth
totally accepts your offer, aspire
every day to be better than to gain
radical acceptance from a dog's brain
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