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Oct 2015
I sit upon my chair and think of life
It feels this stage is set right on a knife

To left, a choice to fall into the clay
Into machines, they grind and knead away

To right, the darkness eats at time itself
Room flips, and values fall from off your shelf

Just kiss the knife with toes one at a time
Breath slow, the edge, I pray, will grow, to feel

insanity waits for those who fall
Steven Martin
Written by
Steven Martin  San Diego
(San Diego)   
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