May 1, 2008
Indifference is never the knife that cuts through Black.
And if there was a chance to glance in the stack
My hands would have been tearing through hay, but no pain
There was no needle, and I still searched through the grain
A crumbling Courage which it’s descends, ends in shame
I set myself away
Really set for no way
For nothing, blank, white and back
Empty days repeating, longing on, for…Black.

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