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Loneliness is a fetish of ours,
Singing birds, stardust fluttering in our ribcage,
Quiescent ones once taciturn, but now clangorous---
Saturnine songs are the ones they know, soaring through a perennial chase.

Serene were these rivers I once conducted, to confluence
Over and over, tide over tide, until we heard nothing but seagulls and resounding silence. placid, limpid, gone.
These renascent pictures, washing up the tide of my everlasting pain, from these seas---the primordial thought of man---



a latent, incessant hum, the mimicry of seashells; superficial .
over pallid skies

volatile, mercurial oceans, emotions of acrimony, bottled in glass
smoldering in the garbled translation of ambulances, of iridescent bonfires and of nights spent asphyxiating over the undulation of sand and of tremulous shadows and the everlasting wait for lightning with trepidation .

reading stories of men falling into turpitude
and never really breathing again

it is a cathartic release, entangling emotion within the twists of bed sheets,
a quagmire of nothing, residual loneliness.

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