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Of Lines and Fog.

Ignore the obvious
until it screams
in your face, walks away
in frustration.

Ambiguity, subtlety,
too much uncertainty
for the clear cut,
bold line,
rigidly defined.

Isolation is the only
thing that has provided
lasting comfort for you.

Hiding.
Drawing lines
in the sand,
fogging all else.

Always need that locked
and bolted door
to hide behind, to find
your center, reclaim yourself.

Is it your mercy,
or your selfishness,
this thick cocoon
of secrets you spin?

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