a bouncing cacophony hammers
head lines roll, the argument in my head rages
practical side says get out of bed
but the others not for moving
day dreams rising like the sun but not as glorious
as she riots the sky with her virtuosity
painting in orange and umber hues the hills
delicately pinking the scurrying clouds
practical head says there’s washing to be done, floors to clean, dishes to scrub
wandering impractical insists on watching the sea scrub shores clean.
washing lonely shores of detritus
the cupboard is empty practical says and beds need making.
but think says impractical of thefeast to sustain the soul
now that I think is ridiculous getting up to dawdle amongst the ordered chaos
giving up sugar has made me mad I think.
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