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Poetic Conquest

A thought sparks up in dim light,
And wedges past several footstools
To transform into a lingering piece.
Toadstools bright with color
Deck the narrow course 
That the thought pursues
And impart their color to it.
What started out as a little thought
With some force, some gumption,
Becomes, unknowingly, a poem
With  a meaning 
That was never intended it,
But which it assumes cheerfully.
The soul is the thought
A little lost, meandering
Surfacing through more powerful words.

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