The Journey Past

It’s everything we think
That makes a mind;
It’s what we cannot see
That makes us blind.

It’s all a lot of ballyhoo
And fuss;
The world was never so,
And ever thus —

It is a type of dream,
A sort of trance;
The journey past
Our own recalcitrance —

For what is never written’s
Never read,
And what we cannot say
That needs

Be said

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