Sense

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Seeking breaks in double lines

When sense don’t seem to make some

Outward light from shining states

And rowdy hums from rumbling tum

 

What feels right and what feels wrong

Can’t tell apart what is, is what

Ain’t nothing what I thought I was

And tacky lips turn cold to hot

 

Double days they treat me as

As best it can, as can as is

Sensing made of crawling change

And flat-lines bubble up to fizz

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