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Skeptic Crash.

Perpetually, dismally
with just believing

— yes: regardless
of the amount of present
evidence — that I could ever

to know
anything for certain.

Trust seems
to just be faith
in a lie:

all that’s available 
in a world lacking
any clear truth. 

It’s inevitable betrayal
lies at the root
of all pain. 

Poisoned soils
rich, hugging

the root
of me, myself,
my everything.

I’m so skeptic 
I split

so I might point
the finger
at my other half:

in myself

as little
as possible.


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