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my mind
a little hell-bent on some kind of
a lot terrified of loneliness and
the sense of being there but
not quite and

the gaps         spaces

in time and no tiles to fill them with
there’s too many blanks       some days
have this odd turquoise shad

 iridescence is sane right?

was there ever a time when

I wasn’t so entirely mad

a time when greetings weren’t
tongue twisters twitching tired
the noose around my neck

pop off my head like a

cork search the brain matter
for the cause maybe it’s where

the damp has set in

mould and decay and the
putrid stench of a soul

wasting away

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