Of stillness and brooding

I read Ginsberg this morning,
all about the sad self.
And thought about myself,
walking miles drunk
on cherry blossoms.
Rain falling on all that I own.
What would Ginsberg
think of this?
A few scribbled notes,
and fate passing by.
He was never alone.
And so, I continue my journey
of brooding through blossoms.
But never stillness.

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