The plan: No rules, no limits, no boundless

horizons. Just the simple direction
of this measly life's profound and soundless
inclinations towards truth and reflection:
To wake up from a dream inherited
is to slide into the grasses of fate,
tall and cutting to lives unmerited,
their dew is a balsam of the first rate:
And these times are indeed very irate;
I heard a man say that before the crash,
and I've wanted since then my own blank slate
for scrawling on — my dreams, designs for cash:
I slinked into the grasses every cut
hearty and hale and ahead of the rut.
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