Sometimes my thoughts grow far from me,
Like branches from the trunk of a grand oak tree,
I look up at them; they seem another entity,
I watch them and tire from this incredulity,
Elsewhere voices, my voices, echo, 'could this be me?'
The space inside my head is a crowded place I cannot leave,
Wandering I wonder detachedly, the running reel,
A thought throbs in the background, fleetingly,
Could any other but it's own flourish from the trunk of the ol' oak tree?
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