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Fishing

By
I wait for the words,
To come near the shore,
From the depths of my mind.

So that I may mix,
Blend, combine, fix,
Them into complete thoughts.

Said thoughts I'll arrange,
Edit, critique, change,
'Til a poem is formed.

But before all that,
The words I must catch,
Out of my mental sea.

Some dart to and fro.
Round and round they go,
Barely out of my reach.

Others I will see,
Occassionally,
And pluck out straight away.

Each word's a treasure,
Each gives me pleasure,
Through expression concise.

The words swim closer,
And I dare not stir,
For fear of start'ling them.

At last they are here,
Their meanings are clear.
Finally, I begin.





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