Echo world behind the glass,
I make the same faces I did at twelve.
The grinning Cheshire Cat
with teeth like piano keys,
mendacious and coy
because viewing my portrait with sobriety
forces me to march with familiar frailties.
I’m certain my gravitas is a forgery.
I am sure my laments and torments are
playacted animation.
Their drama is loathsome.
Instead,...
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