it’s a chance when no wise men agree.
some of the several times when somebody’s a fool compromise,
i hide from a shame of unintentional performances.
my thoughts can bother or go wild.
there are images fabricated insufficiently.
i’m a manner of chaos and a manner of peace.
something happens without an explanation.
yet it can be understood.
conflicts make perplexities question one bard.
i own my scope of random production,
where i write and put down in words, my soul.
a sigh of relief when everything comes in completion,
it’s overwhelming, depending on how to grasp.
the possibility of wasting time—
there is, there are.
one agrees, or so i don’t.