The intellect so often just repeats, lines written while the higher mind’s asleep. The spirit likes to play with thoughts it meets, to lure them out across life’s clean white sheets until they find a rhythm they can keep. The intellect so often just repeats the good, the bad, the tricksters and the treats, ‘til I, in thinking of it, wish to weep. The spirit likes to play with thoughts it meets, to dance with them on crowded city streets or climb up mountain pathways harsh and steep. The intellect so often just repeats, in cinemas, to cold and empty seats, the thoughts good poets never thought to keep. The spirit likes to play with thoughts it meets to urge them on to brave and daring feats, such thoughts, as are by this made wise and deep, the intellect so often just repeats. The spirit likes to play with thoughts it meets.