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The Smoke



If you don't know what you know,
what do you know?

I have asked the world
and am awaiting its reply.

Clinging at things
to identify with.

We swim in madness
looking for sanity.

But sanity is a construct
of mad brains.

The smoke in a bubble of snot,
the hat filled with pus.

Turns out that driving life with hunger
is a recipe for disaster.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.