on the coffee table

is a glass of clear water.

being a poet,

i wondered about its purity.

what if i changed it?

took it and added

something to it – like this.

the ink would run

and soon turn dingy –

not so pure now –

let it sit for a long time,

then check it out.

at least it became a tool

for an image to take place.

sometimes reality is like that.

it’s quite the relationship

no matter how the content arrives

when it comes to life’s complexities

as it has its own texture.

words have their own nuances – don’t they?

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