February 5, 2012
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It’s the shadowy order I notice first,
The oppressiveness of the experience,
The illusion on the cards before me.
And suddenly I am ashamed.
Deep in the substratum of my brain,
It bites subtly, the paradox,
The vague sensation of culpability,
The sin.
I’m secretly snatching my identity from the wall,
Dogged and absent,
Metaphysical filth.
Dusting suspicion from the banisters as I go,
I descend alone to the prison cell,
Happy to be home.

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