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Not Sure
I see sun,
I see sorrow,
Mingled on the floor,
A cracking egg, a knocked door,
Mangled wealth and poor.
I hear sound,
I sometimes smell it,
Synesthesia knows not whence,
A response received to transmit sense.
I feel proud,
I feel pity,
For what I cannot tell,
Determine, please, what I should do:
Be sick or kind of well?
Copyright ©
B. Joseph Fitzsimons
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