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M. Lamar Berry
Compounding deceptions disguise old tracks as they overlap, memory’s faults, growing in layers.
Deeper I tread, cleaving through rooms until they
writhe together. They bleed together.
Wounds become walls,
At the center of
too similar infinities,
crystal seas run caustic with chronic lies. My truth died
mapping those dead ends, my faith dead with my head held under. Oddly, I still crave that touch.
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