Slow time
For the writing, for the thinking
This room, in its quietness
Is the place, a place
With a view becoming
A gateway to joyful understanding
For out there all exists
Such that, life
Is open for interpretation
Also, before the window
An interior
A room for reflective monologue
Internal monoliths
Standing stones of thought
With occasional, or more often
Drifts on to the breeze
Just then, just there, you
To seize the auto-grandissement
Of little more than nothing at all
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