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Scratching the rusted face
of the dust storm―
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Talking points at ground zero
trap the heat. The tyrann
|
|
Encountering a dislocated self,
here it goes, the “I”,
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|
The plunging line was―
going deeper, cutting close to
|
|
A fuzzy fear descends.
You become ensconced―
|
|
Sleepwalking in unlit
night, grabbing the
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The trail in mind, you had
a problem, before the coming of Him.
|
|
Like a meteorite streaking
through the sky, iron
|
|
Treading gently, trying
to feel close to the heat of
|
|
The póetique listening
to the reason, as foggy
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