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The New Day

She shall not curve
But she will have
Stacatto intensitys of line
Jerk-jerking
The somnambulant and the contented.

Criss-crossed all ruts,
The ruts of life.
No man can forecast
At what point is arrival.

To new excitement
The days rise - 
The arranged pieces have been juxtaposed,
We guess again.

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