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I got lost somewhere outside of the world and I can't get back in.To Lew Phillips's previous piece

My surface is dependent on the warm air,
the same air that exiles and reprises, as far
as the drive to the more inferior part from me,
the unpolished that is that estranged dream

of fullness and crime.
My eye, in which the tip of that combustion
is sharp in order to force the emptiness
out of the inner sense -- cracked by my foolish pride.

Flexibility and competent uniformity are mine.
I have acquired pride, sadism, and whim.
They form the three known walls to my prison.
My delusions tightened, punishment for my conceit, methodically exiling.

My insolence fell that morning.