My Thing

And, even when I do my thing,
I ask, “On whose behalf?”
And, like a joyous mountain spring,
My spirit’s heard to laugh.

For, even if I were a one
Who acted on the sly,
I’d still be shining like the sun
Against a boundless sky.

It’s just that, when I think too much,
I feel time’s icy blast,
And, not until I’m back in touch,
Am I aware what’s passed.

And then I know it makes no sense;
There neither was nor is an fence.

Photo by Ian Stauffer on Unsplash

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