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Late Fall 2010. The mountains. A photograph of someone elses' family tucked in the pages here. I can no longer remember who they are.

A turning carousel of talking heads
going round and round.

They whittle sentiments into hollow beads,
Carven images stretching to the horizon,
Strung on the sinews of the jaded young
and the prematurely lost.

Whispered commitment like the sand in my boots,
pervasive and chafing,
Poured out each night with as much care.

A turning carousel of lies, and liars,
spinning themselves around.

They carve my home into toothpicks,
Carefully varnish and glue them,
Miniature and perfect.

When I come back there is only a scale model,
an echo of the ideal I carried with me.

With the planked remains they build
A neon boardwalk of barkers,
hustlers, staked into the mud -

Look no farther folks;
This is the show you've been waiting for.

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