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Creative Writing Poetry

Hamartia

By living this way, I am killed, every day.

Mirage after mirage, my hands pass only through thin air, and I’ve come to loathe the sight of shimmering water.

It’s funny, how invention is most visceral to me;

My mind and spirit swell with its overpowering resonance –

I, who would long to love truth more than anything.

From the beginning, so much is full of contrivance…

No soul may ever really honor the right to know another.

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