Prolix

Verbose, long and windy

Becomes a way to

Obfuscate, blur;

Then we

Forget the question

Or the premise.

Is concise dead?

 

Where was I?

Here before

Was I

On the verge

Of knowing

Then the flood began,

Avalanches of words.

Truth at bay

Facts on a stack;

An aroma of falseness,

Yet

Somewhere

In that pile

Is a pony.

 

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