To speak, or not to speak...
Fervent words on repurposed paper
singing the comical death
lamenting sore esitence.
The dissonance is beatuiful
behind broken knuckles
and gnawed-raw cuticles.
Salted synapses dry intentions.
The lines are a map
with cryptic directions
and terrible dimensions
and I am lost trying to make sense
of where I was headed in the first place.
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