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We carry secrets deep inside
where they cower, slink and hide
along the cracks and crannies of
our brains. Some lie concealed, alone,
undisturbed for years. Sometimes
a tremor and they turn and move.
Perhaps a smell or just a word,
a picture, or a passing quip.
But when aroused, poke out their heads,
stir around and fill the heart
with a sense of loss and grief.
When the damage is complete
they slither once again into
the stygian places of the soul
leaving melancholy tracks.

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