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Under the Surface
Friend,
Silence listens,—every thought we think,
each new feeling which soundless trickles by,
the twinge of untold pain, the snuck-in sigh,
are registered within the margin’s ink
Friend,
Silence listens (better than your shrink),—
in worries sunken deep below the “I”,
the subterranean soul, the scrying spy,
dutifully encodes each missing link.—
Observe the many mangled manners your mood
wrings its revenge out from your wet-cloth mind.—
To wrest the terror from your burning breast,
it twists your vision—perception, once skewed
unkowingly invites the shades inclined
to test your tensed chest’s breath of stressed rest.
Copyright ©
X F Lacasse
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