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The Price Of Peace

a shady hovel

single bed
orange crate
and a cardboard box

a dimwicked porch lamp
no solicitors of friendship

left alone
sparring with thoughts
...about thought
from mute books
that can never take back their words
and hounding
their cagy ways
until "gotcha, you slickery little weasels
snagged by your own glibby tales"

a deep breath ensues
a soothing sigh of relief

the mystery is still unresolved

and then...(for me, personally)
a luscious moment of peace once again

why this should be, I don't know
I'd ask a shrink
but would then just kick the premis out
from under his feet

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 


I like how this is so serious in its undertaking of its question but then the final part has a little dig with cynicism at the fixing of these things. Perhaps somethings are better left to chance? I enjoyed this and had no real crits to make.

"The perfect woman perpetrates literature as she does a small sin: as an experiment, in passing, to see if anybody notices it - and to makes sure that somebody does." - Nietzsche

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