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Dazed inside infinite doorways of doubt,

no no no, it can’t be, it’s not her, she’s me, I am her.

The compass is pulled apart, broken down.

Navigation is a cruel mess in this town,

where everything is only what you want to see,

what you want it to be.

What was understood is impossibly real,

so the signs, in their profound certainty,

reroute back to doubt, instantly.

Hands feel naked with nothing to hold onto,

looking for a pulse….rubbernecking for a pulse.

Unmoving in the traffic that the mind creates,

the mouth is taped, the tongue is in braids.

Only in the depths of sleep, speak is easy,

and the last silent word floats away.

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