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Paracosm is a Cure
The decadence of one hundred –
maybe one thousand –
hands
and running mouths.
Wynorrific red-yellow cultivates
my brain with torpor;
when
did the ground shake?
Oh solace, it is the only time
I leave the human
eye;
my empyrean wanting.
Something helps not to
desire an awakening;
practice,
when you’ve never asked for one.
The circus doctor’s say,
you have paramnesia.
Lies;
the audience is never fake.
I know, I should know,
I see it every night;
they
all laugh at the makeup.
If I were to remove it,
would they laugh at my
face
too? I don’t want to recall.
This job, sham title, the
whole charade, it comes with a
costume,
red and yellow; it comes with the tent.
Copyright ©
Nagham Al-Qahtani
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