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The Thing Most Feared

The Stillness slips in quietly:
One by one they fade, so subtly
Graying on the mantelpiece
No matter many times you dust them.
After all, it's not like you have
Anything else to do!
No destinations, no voices
For silence to hide behind now, just
Quiet rot. You knew it was there all along,
Didn't you!
But screams die quickly, with only sleeping air
To feed them. Nothing left but
The act of disappearing.
And so you do, leaving behind
Dust motes, dentures,
And a broken clock.





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