repossessing the vacated rooms
of my inner home.
probing, feeling around
suspicious of spontaneity and all
romantic attributes of the psyche.
nevertheless.....
scrub down the windows
impregnated with dead spiders and abandoned
webbing... grease and sweaty fingers of my
less than favorite selves... smeared with
fear
errors
and overthinking things.
missing object game.
i spot the difference yet the words fail me.
serene and balanced
amounting to happiness?
that's got to be it.
what else could pull so undeniably
on my masks?
reductio ad absurdum of sorts....
i would love to believe it
anyway.
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