Flat on my back, I ride the gentle sway
                                        of a rented boat chasing feathery
                                        clouds, floating as easily as if well oiled.
                                        My dreams should come along. If oiled
                                        half as well, their logic might sway
                                        my follies, mince my fears feathery.
                                        Loons crease my thinking, feathery
                                        flights into solitude, drifting oiled
                                        trails into the dark within their sway.
                                        Feathery fugues, oiled ways, sway.


prompted by wordle 124
at The Sunday Whirl

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