life, so called, her share of the eerie
the repetition of a self, weary!
The moment her back pain was back
the shared hurt of living, intact
the truth was what she lacked
In retrospect, these were the facts:
The back pain was to evade,
the rest was attention overpaid!
The boisterous everyday parade
to sense the real with reason
was to construct a new prison!
Or the search for the prose that rhymed
was nothing more than a waste of time;
a mortal's search for the sublime!
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