Reality blinks, a pause in the fabric of time;
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not on a dime, I think, but a temporal spasm,
or perceptual orgasm, and mind has died:
cannot fathom when I am not I in my third eye.
Phoenix rising from burning optics,
dragon circling crimson palms upturned to a new moon;
a wave of blur and her, ebon to his bone:
tomorrow to ashes, memory to dust.
The present of presence, just.