Making sense.
Making nonsense.

Making sense out of nonsense.
Nonsense out of sense.
Nonsense out of nonsense. . .

and when we’re really
really lucky,
at our best,
we’re making sense
out of somewhere hidden sense.

When we make nonsense out of sense,
sometimes we later need to cry,
to grieve that chance
gone flown right by,
for which we’ll ne’er
see recompense.

if we keep love and sense
in our heart
and our mind’s eye,
and fathom how
at least to try,

by and by,
we’ll manage to
enjoy the music
and the dance.
For now, and maybe
ever hence.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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