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Rated: E · Poetry · Opinion · #2094476
The sacredness of one's thoughts.

The colors of Indian Summer are still
far off, yet I felt a chill today when
you told me you could get into
my head, when you told me
you could get into my mind,
when you said you could
access my thoughts.

I must have missed the day
when Spock’s, “Mind Meld”
was granted you, or perhaps
I simply underestimated your
mind-reading capabilities. 

On second thought, I think I will
stick to my heartfelt conviction;
to wit, my thoughts are mine—
I do not recognize your power
of woo.  No sir, I don’t accept
your ability to mind-surf.

This is sometimes a waterfall
of presumption; it is off-color
rude, to be sure. 
Glitters it does not. 

I know we do not agree on theological
issues, but I would not be so bold
to say you really don’t believe
what you say you believe.

Reality is an Andes mountain peak;
it can be seen, felt, and it is available
for laboratory testing.  But the
thoughts in one’s head are an
ark in a Fort Knox vault,
and entry is prohibited.

32 Lines
Writer’s Cramp

—colours of Indian Summer
—Andes mountain peak

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