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The Cognitive Colander
Perhaps it is weary.
In the mental hourglass.
I rummage through my recollections.
Along the back wall of the speakeasy.
when the public voice has spoken
Perceptions.
Grace from a bird's-eye view.
love's twisted rails
Smell stolen.
We slipped down the rainbow's edge.
Above my eyes, I have grey stripes.
Grey slits go over my eyeballs.
Written: April 14, 2022
Copyright ©
Sotto Poet
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