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Loud.

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Will the days go on 
In this supplicated silence?
I wrote a poem and I had a dream of mutual
Annihilation. Time-stewed perspective colored fault:
It feels like a common madness.

Displaced by hushed disaster, I haunt
Architecture of the soul - yours, mine
- crystalline castles groaning at the foundations. 
All fell.

Poetry, poetry. Cut with a strike, a scratch,
Deep scribbled chaos driving into the page
And tearing through to white flesh with a powerful ease.
Ink spits from a furious pen as verse leaks from lonely lip.
Diffusing through bleached fibers to leave a bruise deep in the page,
Smearing a distrust in the narrator.





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