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Click herepinnacles of the heart
deepest darkest
troughs of thought
con fused
as one lead only
to the flaw in
our perfection
no more room
for under standing
that crack upon the ceiling
in the bottoms of our hearts
where mystery seeps in
reveals
it
Self as laughter
no more need
for holding on
breathe
out to
be filled
breath
with in
This poem has been selected for listing in Wednesday's New Poems Review.<br>
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