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Looking back helplessly at every foible like Epimetheus. Born like a weed in the steamy morning, I was an aimless crude creature spinning flamboyant cobwebs like a confident fool. I slathered prismatic patterns, grinning like a jester. Then, civilization impounded the measures of my dreams. I became an embarrassed lying chowderhead concealing my crayons. I lacked language, locution or parlance. I sat absent, a prisoner in rote computation. My night dreams merged with day-dreams. My solo island became a continent. I tried phoning out with phony phonetic fumbles but everyone could see. So I slipped away, deserting, fleeing, riding the rails in boxcars. My passage through nocturnal town and village untraceable, uncertain, preoccupied with the pigments of my polyscope. Later I reappeared, reconsidered and revised, replicating the decorations of acuity, imitating profundity like P. T. Barnum. My spectacle drew crowds until I was discovered. My retreat and retraction now heavy with fatigue, I know not the lens of my psyche. In sobriety, I recall all my splinters and ruptures. But my rearranged reissues of adornments will persist until I am expelled. Published: The Opiate Journal, July 2020

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020

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Date: 1/9/2021 1:02:00 PM
this is a very good write, deep and profound..congrats on a well deserved win!
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Thomas Wells
Date: 1/10/2021 12:02:00 AM
Thank you, Charlotte! Be well always.
Date: 1/5/2021 6:46:00 PM
Thomas this is an excellent write and read, I had to read it many times and I think I finally got it, congrats on a top win!
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Thomas Wells
Date: 1/8/2021 1:00:00 AM
John, Thanks very much!