Think
In the past, time of the present,
or nothing of the future,
nothings near,
yet so far away,
In the mirror,
the curve that slides,
home of the gut,
in squeamish eyes,
that bleeds adapted tears,
And then holds the hands,
of sins burning,
in every place,
that sings echo's of illuminating,
roars of nothingness,
to vibrate my eyes.
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