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I am not
The noise in the street,
Or the weary, bloodshot
Yawn of a commuting man.
I am not
Kilobytes travelling
Through rented cyberspace
Or worn out railings in the park.
I am not
An ill young man
Dreaming of love affairs.
Or an immovable
Colossus of Rhodes.
I am not
A cutting rose,
With thorns of red,
Or a melting iceberg
Which drowns a man.
I am not my mother
Or my father
Recalling stories
Of ill spent youth.
I am I
And share my disorientation
With you.

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