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I’m too smart to believe in luck but I’d rather be lucky than smart.

This room
as good
as any
 
to hear
the story
told  aloud.
 
Its walls
to capture
and conceal.
 
 Featureless
 to judge,
 stares ambivalent.
 
 Echoes back
 a tired
 invective.
 
Like a favored
worn shoe,
it’s outlived itself.
 
The true heart
Stumble
to start,
 
robbed of air,
manages little
to move.
 
In this room
it’s  perfect,
intent.
 
Cradled in air
till deaths hand
is dealt.

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