for all these patterned walls, are scratched,
and all my days in them spent following my eyes to the corners,
hoping for windows or doors,
and cracks to another place have formed,
within the walls and within my mind,
along long ago sketched fingerlines,
sometimes i cannot tell the deeper stains from my own,
so many borrowed threads,
this way and that,
and days i cannot contain,
water rushes readily to the surface,
as i grasp for thoughts which i look into, not out of,
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