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Distortion I feel it through the facility of bodily perception, of gut sensation. I can sense it, this impending agony. With such capacity, that it is as if Nemesis herself, were sneering back at me, through a lurid fantastical radiance in the glasswork of my mirror. Time stands still, and once again I am victim to the manipulative distortion. I barely recognize this reflection, that I look upon. It seems to taunt me, to laugh at me. I can almost hear it's peculiar chortle. |
Additional Notes:
This poem was submitted last month, and I decided to submit it again, minus the spelling errors.
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