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I gaze in the mirror, such an image I see,

such an image cannot be of me.

When did it happen... this image I see,

this image I think... is not of me.

What thief in the night has stolen the image,

the image I know, the image of me.

This image I see, unadorned,

in natural state. What wonders await?

Of times that have past, this image does tell.

Yes, this image is me, it fits me well.


A sundry harbor of lost hope. It calls to those with pain,

to nurture at the bosom, and coddle away its reign.

To shield vulnerability, by word, by stroke, refrain.

To purge woe, a villainous foe, with rigorous campaign.

Beguiled and infirm, with resistant jaded view,

diurnal praise begets a phase, of existential spew.

A dawn without burden, unfettered and anew,

tread beyond the harbor, save the refractory few.

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