The lost patterns of rumination found itself
Right at the edge of his joyous flood.
It’s been only like bliss interim
Later points razor sharp towards the hollowness.
It’s been like the pressed eraser-
-Waiting to be accelerated
To dwindle the defining lines
Bordering the sane – insane-
That the delicacy of his unresolved pains
Proved by a turbulence least imagined.
And yet
The strangeness of the mind less contemplated
Amidst all accusations and antipathies.
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