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The Trip MAG
I celebrate boredom with orange-tiled flooring.
Tracing a path out the heavy door.
I see the hallway of marathon runners who
Haven't a clue what is tomorrow.
A merciless friend traps my feet,
Who tricks my body to tilt like the sails that map
My ocean.
That orange-tiled floor has been introduced by
My keen observations.
Now I have to sweep the dust with my eyes,
And heat the room with my punctured ego.
© Anonymous
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