Exhausted
I’ve stopped loving.
I’ve stopped caring
about the fallout,
the burning debris
that will flash out
from the explosions.
I’ve stopped loving.
I’ve stopped living.
I’ve stopped caring
about shadows
and stars and moons
and suns and dreams.
I’ve stopped dreaming.
I’m numb
and going through motions,
carried on a stretcher
into the war zone
to a burning hospital
wracked by bombs
and artillery shells.
I’ve stopped writing.
I’ve stopped caring.
I’ve stopped loving.
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