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The Mythic Me Am I the one who I pretend to be full of something, but what I am not sure perhaps a myth is all that I can see the past recreates what it cannot cure finger tipping through my own awareness lifting eye ward scenes squinted from what were dangling in breezes of unfairness my own escaping puzzlements that stir reflections of reflections opposing the chambered blanks are going up in smoke barrels through the mind, strikes at the closing light the flame of histories hand, EVOKE!!! I am more then the mirror me I eye I reach upward standing on years of why |
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