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Why- Are My Atoms Still Aligned?


Like a smoker I stare
At the swirling, rising cloud
Of turbulent haste
In circles of grey-
In reluctant sweeps of fingers
gesturing sullenly; the nails
chipped and broken
from powdery insinuations
Caught like lint in the cracks

And think- why?
Why is this emptiness not
All-engulfing, all-penetrating?
Why am I entitled to a niche of air
Why– despite every breath
I take to put an end to these
Vibrant, disturbing colors
Swimming dangerously before me-
Are my atoms still aligned?

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