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February 24, 2000
All Poetry


Trapped in a prison of my memory.

Fighting out of a concrete cage that doesn’t exist.

Yet every time I get close, I can feel my face press up against it.

It’s as solid as the ground you walk on, with no shape.

It’s as small as a dust peck, with walls like a vault.

Looking for an exit for a place that no longer is.

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