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I Can’t

pretend anymore,
to know what I feel,
or even that I dream
about you in Technicolor.

In the night
pine trees grow around
my bed and shelter me
from demons howling
like north winds.
But in the morning,
I am vulnerable, disoriented
from the lies of omission
you’ve left behind.

I can’t go on divining
the truth like someone
searching for water.

I listen for his voice,
but it is less than a whisper;
not even an echo;
I seek the mother of my birth,
but she leaves no clues.

I hide from myself,

but smoke and mirrors
are not enough.

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