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You say there’s nothing broken.

Nothing you can see.

But what do you know?

You don’t have eyes

that pierce my flesh

or understand

what lies inside my soul.

It’s there I hurt and it’s there where I shall mend.


How to do that?

What must I repair?

The whole

or can my soul

be sliced in parts?

That bit’s all right,

this piece is torn,

that part is damp

and limp with tears.


I must discover who I am,

what I’m not,

and solve the riddles.

You will only guess,

throw solutions in the air

and let the wind decide. 


I shall find the answers,

mend myself, and know

when I’m complete again.

Michael R Chapman
~ master of none ~
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