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The Cling

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Three years. Three years you just burnt. Brain cells. Thoughts. Intellect.
All smeared from glistens to shamed s***fuls. DUST.
Its gone –that era, that age, that state you were unscathed. Faith in the rest, faith in yourself. Asking ‘If I can’t see, how can I be?’
Worse than that, ‘if I can’t feel, who will read the braille for me? The Goosebumps, the warm, the longing or form?’
The grief, it trickles

The shatters, the cracks

The shakes, they arrive – the wake waiting, braced for attack.
Back, there’s no back – it’s born the brunt
The screen that’s broke: The pain that’s acid, wreaking tang of time wasted
now we’re curdling with confront.

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