Poem Unknown

It's not at all clandestine 


to know my thoughts are indelible.


They are like a conflagration, they are simply memorable.


Some would say I'm nocturnal but that's not really true. 


Narcoleptic, insomniac, but you have problems too.


I like the smell of fall, when it's truly august, 


Just so you don't fall back into the compunction.


And though, to you, it is completely irrelevant,


I will continue to ruminate until I am quiescent.


And I will make it inveterate.

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