beneath The Surreal, near the Foggy Forgotten--
a careening chasm of a Careless Core.
She was quick with Thoughts, but slow with Actions--
Too distracted by Dreams and Infertile Distractions--
those half-pigmented fragments of Self-Control.
She surrounded herself with Good Intentions--
but made no Marks, no Crude Indentions--
and deeper she veered into her Visceral Lore.
She’d pick and she’d poke at those pot-holed Ambitions--
She’d crinkle and crumple up crumpled Directions--
‘Til the bottom was an ocean without room for shores.
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