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Closed eyes put up images
of bloated bellies,
half smiling lips and truths in plenty
to create illusions.
And an idea emerges
to fill up a space in time.
Guilt speaks out without prompting
and I feel crushed.
Fierce little words invade
and I analyze vainly.
And a cauldron burns energies
of stirrings of gods,
while searing heat burns and re-burns
as the body refuses to agree
where tragedy occurs.
And still I derive pleasure
from the closed eyes.
Next: Of this Feeling
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