Arrangements of Lines

The passage of the snow, my friend,
The passage to and fro
Is what all people seek to see
To sense what lies below

Now in the darkness we shall look
And we shall ever see
All that stands before us now
Between Thee and me

It’s on the cusp of wanton bread
That circus acts do play,
Stirring up all sorts of looks
And granting tardy stays

They’ll leave once light upon them lands
Shining brightly forth
And causes unto Naugum’s hands
A slightly blemished wart.

The war’s not over; charges go,
They stand upon the few
And disappear in classic dance
Between the wooden pews.

It is his leg, the wooden one,
That has a knotty hole
And fills with winded, windy, wind
Whenever on a stroll.

It ‘tis the last, ‘tis not the first
Of lines within this write,
But evermore the thoughts thereof
Find friendship to enlight’.

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