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Trina Stolec
Insanity
Mist distorts orange brick roughness
into a photo of your face.
I hear your voice,
a beacon I should follow
or carrot-bait hovering just out of ear's reach.
You promise to love me forever.
Beyond the mist,
the air is too thick to breathe.
Choking fog replaces your arms with an acid touch,
entombs me in a deprivation chamber.
Insanity is closing in.
I must find the line;
blow away fog and mist,
separate imagination from fact.
If only the air would part and your face be there.
If only someone else could hear your voice.
If only I knew for sure if love
is imagination or fact.
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