It matters, it forms a trail
whether born old, born lonesome,
these young habits of fact
they watch on all your soul,
with the eager urge to mock
in a three-year-old, 
well, the heart wants to be taught,
the brain wants to be told,
and like magic they knot
folded in you as a foal.
With an innocent kind of malign,
you are ever reminded of the goad,
of deepest rumination, a symbol, a gold set of inescapable numbers,
buried in the land mine of body


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