that plays upon my mind.
It is all odds and evens,
Too many straight edges,
Never enough curves.
A delicate contraption that
captures such hideous fascination.
They tell me it's an acquired taste,
and given their preferences,
I must bow my head and agree.
But it wears me down,
gnaws me to the bone,
and I become a face
I scarcely recognize.
My mouth spews curses
at this trickery,
This inward scrambling,
And I fall to my knees
with a sort of ease.
Yet, the puzzle remains,
as ever, a mystery.
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