Sight
This is the wreath of convent
The course so wiling and beautiful
Sits my actions in a stream of content desire
And resourcefulness waits to bloom

I confess im a magnet for others
They see me and call me rightful
I have but a fraction left of my disguise as a squire
My choices force more room

I sift reality through chances
Into the sanctuary of my tune
The only reaction I choose is as I acquire
Within Is in counting my toes and declaring I zoom

Into a reality, I mark my glances
Rather than attract what is soon
To be latent, I decide im in dire
Of need to clearly deceive my own loom.

if im a women, then call me a nun as I rant,
Because as I count my toes at noon,
It brings with it a tune so real is as fire
That it steals the blue ribbon and I hear a boom.

Lord, tell me I have eleven toes. Please.
Because then it would make sense how I see you
and others don’t.

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