The daffodil dance

When William Wordsworth penned it down,
Golden daffodils painted the town,
Was it the flowers or the flowing stream,
Was it the solitude or his dream. 

I cannot tell what poets do,
Inspirations, imaginations, or just a singing cuckoo,
All I know, my mind blinds off,
Starts galloping like a horse.

It takes control of my thoughts
Holds my will as a wrought,
Penning it down is the only aim
Nothing works, no excuse lame. 

Today was such definite day
Down the stairs, I pave my way
I feel the breeze in my hair
The sun shines somewhere.

Listening to the rustle of autumn dry
The white cumulus flocks the sky,
The moment of smile, a sigh of relief 
Tonite with sleep, I would do a thief. 



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