Broken up, split apart,
peeling and cracked.
Seen as if from a
Bug’s eye view. All
the same picture,
yet never full.
Eyes in one corner,
mouth in another,
a grotesque mirage,
yet it’s real.
Horrifying, phantom of
the opera, don’t look it
full in the face lest
you be turned to stone,
yet mystifying.
Seven years bad
luck, superstition,
yet thirteen is a lucky number. . .
and it’s all really a mirror image. . .
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