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|Why am I the mirror of your heart,
Reflecting without depth your deepest pain,
Revisiting your hell again, again,
As though you were a well-wrought work of art?
Why do I vicariously take part
In suffering you barely can sustain,
Witnessing your agony in vain,
Tracing chaos too profound to chart?
Each night obsessively I come to you,
Eager to devour your bitter fruit,
Uneasy through the doldrums of my day.
Watching is, alas, what I can do,
As though my gaze were contribution mute,
Sharing your ordeal in some small way.