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Mark’s Mark

Let the senses take to flight,
And glisten without fear.
Spiraling at such a height,
They overcrowd the atmosphere.
Attaching to what is and was,
While chasing the next day.
Ever reaching out because,
One can truly see this way.
Tasting sadness, touching joy,
Movements all to make.
A step to heal or to destroy,
Has but a single line to break.
The smallest twitch, the slightest grin,
This tiny altered state.
Ready, set and then begin,
The senses, they will permeate.
Quick and painless; without thought,
This process in its prime.
Never seen or found or caught,
Then lost within its time.
I’ve heard you say its called “aware”,
Though this is quite distinct.
One part truth, the other dare,
Is based on pure instinct.
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