a bleeding heart,
done long enough,
is dry blood
that appears to have cried.
an utterance repeated
so many times
that it represents all moods,
is then whittled down into nothing said.
how sobering can one be
when vision is but a distant landscape,
all sound is but background noise
and the feel for life
is but cardboard in the surround.
bleak is but a sneak preview
of the future answering back
to calls for the override of circumstance.
details, no one needs details,
for there is a want of kindling,
the feedback of shadows on the walls
for the firmness of light grabbing me,
face to face, looking forward
and into me . . .
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